


The Lion Goes to Serbia

by Tindomerelhloni



Series: The Jungle Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF John Watson, Do not steal my work and upload as your own, Gory bits are not talked about, Hurt/Comfort, I'm bad at tags, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Need my boyfriend to teach me more about guns so I can write them more accurately, Part one of three, Please do not copy at all, Series now complete, Smut, Some mentions of torture, please do not copy to other sites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25425613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: John Watson had a secret, two if you counted his unspoken love for Sherlock Holmes. Well, Captain John H. Watson had a secret, if you wanted to get technical. Even Mycroft Holmes hadn't known about his full military career when he'd taken up sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes.At least he hadn't known before Sherlock, his best friend, had jumped to his death nearly two years ago.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Jungle Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933387
Comments: 132
Kudos: 377





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherKat/gifts).



> It has been FAR too long since I've written. I wanted to get back, I wanted to finish my WIP I have. But I needed the confidence to do so. I asked in a facebook group for a prompt for a short story to get myself back into the swing of things and got "John goes to Serbia to rescue Sherlock".
> 
> I had intended for this to be about 5-8k words long. Now the finished piece is just shy of 31k words. I have my recent back injury to thank for that. I've been stuck in bed for 11 days straight now while I wait for the horrible US health care system to approve my MRI request, my request for a specialist, and a few other orders from my primary Doctor. So, being stuck in bed has given me the time to write this. I also had an AMAZING one-time beta who helped me realize my writing style needed to be changed. 
> 
> She helped me realized I'm too "Tell" and not enough "Show". If you've read any of my previous works, I hope you can see a difference. Adding in more descriptions isn't easy for me, but I feel I made a huge improvement. There is still LOTS of room to continue to improve, but I'm proud of what I accomplished. (Especially seeing I did it writing on a ten-year-old laptop in bed while in pain. LMAO. SO, THANK YOU, to my beta... I honestly couldn't have done this without you. 
> 
> If you're the praying sort, pray I get my short term disability to kick in ASAP, I'm looking at going four or so more weeks without pay. Dealing with a health insurance change that could make getting all my appointments scheduled a nightmare, and just generally having a rough go of things. 
> 
> At the request of someone, I set up a Ko-fi to see if I can help get myself through these next few weeks. If you can help, wonderful! Thank you! If not, no problem. : ) Even a share of my ko-fi page would be huge! Ko-fi.com/tindomerelhloni
> 
> Thank you for reading this far, and please enjoy my story.

The day was cool and damp. London was _always_ damp. Rain had been coming down for hours in a steady drizzle, enough to make the grass soggy. The rain wasn't stopping people from enjoying the spring day, however. John had been mildly shocked by the amount of people out walking in the park. His bemusement was cut short when his mobile buzzed in his pocket. Thinking it was his boss, Sarah, texting him he nearly ignored it. She was the only one who contacted him now-adays. If he'd left something in the clinic he could just pick it up tomorrow. 

Curiosity got the best of him if, she were asking him to pick up an extra shift it was always better to reply quickly so she didn't text someone else. His eyes skimmed over the text and he stopped him dead in his tracks halfway across Battersea Park. The young lady who'd been a few paces behind, utterly fixated on her mobile, uttered an audible tut as she sidestepped him, barely walking into him. 

"Sorry," John muttered, stepping aside to give others the space to maneuver around him. 

"My fault," she said, still not looking up from her mobile, "its community day," then made a little swirling motion with her index finger and yelled to a group of young adults a short ways ahead of them, "Oi! Wait up, I caught a shiny!" 

"Right.." John shook his head, confused by whatever Community Day or Shiny meant, but that was not important. The text was.

**The Lion has been Reactivated. Please report in for orders. - MH**

John ticked off names on his left hand, West, Sholto, Moore, Byrd, Watson. he was one of five people to have known about "The Lion". Mycroft Holmes now made six. It was remarkably easy to school his composure back to that of parade rest, and it was with a calm hand he typed out a reply.

**Understood. ETA 30 min.**

He pocketed the mobile and looked at his hands. They hadn't stopped trembling since the day Sherlock jumped, nearly two years ago. Now, with The Lion being called in, he felt a calm he hadn't felt in years wash over him and a grim determination.

***

Arriving at the Diogenes Club with three and a half minutes to spare, he paid the cabbie and stepped out onto the pavement. He felt a little underdressed as a man in a suit that must have cost him well over three thousand quid walked into the club.

The club was posh, but of course, it would be. It was run by and for men from the government. And not just English men, men from all over the world would find themselves here when in London. The thing that made the club so special was the simple fact that aside from in three rooms (that John knew of) speaking of any kind was not allowed. The members used their own form of hand signals to communicate, and even then communication was kept to, "Where is the bathroom." or, "Yes, I would like tea."

John had learned the hard way, upon his first visit with Sherlock. He had thanked the butter when he'd been handed a cup of tea and had received dirty looks from everyone in the room. Well, not from Sherlock. The prat had instead stifled a giggle making John wonder if his oversight to tell him the rules had been accidental or not. 

It hadn't been hard to figure out where to meet the brother of his deceased best friend. While John was certain that Mycroft had an office in at least one government building, if not all of them, the Diogenes made more sense. Where else would they meet to discuss a highly classified military operation, if not the one club in London that valued its silence over its rich members?

Balling his hands into fists in determination, John strode into the club, waited while the man in the expensive suit used a series of hand gestures to explain his purpose there then stepped up to the elderly man behind the reception desk. John had always been accompanied by Sherlock when visiting Mycroft here. Sherlock had known the hand signals, which meant John had never bothered to learn them. He was expecting to require paper to write his reason for visiting but the elderly man sitting behind the reception desk simply nodded, pressed at one of the dozen or so buzzers on his desk and motioned to the corner of the room at a row of chairs. 

John had only just sat down when a hidden door in the corner of the room opened. He knew from past experience where that door led, so he was not surprised when Mycroft Holmes, elder brother to the late Sherlock Holmes, stepped up to the door and gestured for him to follow. It had been roughly a year and a half since John had seen Sherlock's brother, their last encounter being at Sherlock's funeral. While his chestnut hair looked a little thinner, the sharply cut three-piece suit with its expensive understated elegance was the same, as was the pinched expression on his face that would make even the Queen herself sit down and listen.

John followed obediently, letting the spring-loaded door close behind him. The windowless hall was well lit, leading the way to Mycroft's office. John had no doubt it was one of the best private rooms available. Polished wooden floors gleamed even in the dreary grey light of a typical English day. 

John was directed to sit in one of the two expensive looking antique chairs that were thankfully more comfortable than they looked. Carefully positioned in front of Mycroft's intimidatingly large lustrous mahogany desk, where the man himself sat with neat efficiency, gathering up some documents spread across an open manila folder in front of him.

"I trust your trip-" Mycroft began to say, but arched an eyebrow and gave the former soldier a bemused quirk of his eyebrow when John gave him a cold smile.

"With all due respect, Mycroft, what are my orders?" John placed his palms flat on his thighs to resist the urge to fiddle, as was his habit when facing an unknown mission. He kept his tone respectful, similar to how he would speak to his former NCO, but made it clear that if Mycroft attempted to be smart with him he would stand up and walk out. It wasn't like he had to go home and listen to Sherlock prattle on about how Mycroft would be insufferable in the foreseeable future thanks to John's actions. No, John would just go home to an empty flat, block Mycroft's number and continue on going through the motions of daily life. 

"Quite right, we've never been one for pleasantries." Mycroft tucked in his chair, and leaned forward on his desk, resting his elbows on the smooth surface. As he leaned over he partially covered the manila folder, which drew John's attention to it. Mycroft typically was surrounded by similar folders, but something about the way he was protecting this one made John feel a spark of interest. That alone was intriguing. John hadn't felt much of anything for a long time aside from frustrated at stupid patients. 

"Would you like the opportunity to decline this mission?" Mycroft asked, his voice even and controlled, "Once you've been told, I'm afraid you'll either have to carry it out or remain secured until another operative has completed it. Not exactly for your own safety either." Mycroft, a man Sherlock had jokingly told him would start a war just to make Sherlock's commute home tedious, watched John steadily as he waited for a reply.

"Is it dangerous?" John asked after only giving Mycroft's warning a sparing thought. It honestly didn't matter if it were dangerous. John had spent the time since Sherlock's fall wondering when the day would come when he'd finally get tired of not feeling. When he'd finally take up his own service weapon and end it. What difference would it make if he died on a mission versus in his own flat. It would probably be best for the sake of Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, if he didn't end it at home. 

"Two of my men have not returned," Mycroft stated simply, still not offering any information regarding the mission that John had correctly guessed he was being offered.

"Time frame?" John settled in the expensive chair a bit more comfortably, showing Mycroft with his body language, if not exactly his words, that he would take the job.

"Up to the operative, however, time is of the essence." Mycroft relaxed as well and let out a drawn out sigh before continuing, "We can allow you time to prepare, but not much."

"Backup, if things go wrong?" He was asking only for the sake of if, John had performed solo missions before.

"I'll be there for intelligence, you however will be the only player on the field."

"Why me?" he asked bluntly not that the reasoning behind it would have any difference. He'd made up his mind already, which Mycroft already knew. Still, he hadn't heard from Sherlock's brother in nearly two years. His interest, now sparked, was becoming a hunger somewhere inside of him. What had caused Mycroft to pick him over his seemingly endless supply of government and military trained minions?

"We need someone my brother will trust," Mycroft said simply. John had to replay the words in his head twice before the meaning hit him. It felt like time froze for a moment while he processed the implication of that calmly uttered statement. 

"Your brother?" he stammered and his voice cracked. John cleared his throat and sucked in a shaky breath through his nose. "As in, my dead best friend?" He wasn't able to hide, the way his voice began to shake, and the tremor in his left hand grew worse. He clenched his fists and looked Mycroft straight in the eye as he awaited the answer. Desperation for this not to be a cruel joke made him edge forward in the chair, causing the leather to squeak underneath his trousers. 

"As in Sherlock Holmes. Who is very much alive." Mycroft replied with incredible patience. There wasn't a hint of mockery in his voice which made hope spring up inside of John like some dried up well overfilled by winter snow-melt. 

"He's…." John couldn't make himself say it. He just couldn't, despite the hope. He had spent the last 18 months trying to come to terms with the fact that the man he'd been too chicken to confess his love to was dead. Dead before he knew just how much John Watson loved him. If he were alive then John could find him, tell him how he felt after nearly four years. Then maybe, just maybe, he could begin to feel again. Even if Sherlock rejected him and his feelings. Then at least guilt wouldn't be the only emotion he felt on a regular basis.

John fixated on a spot on the wall just to the left of Mycroft’s head and fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. No doubt, Mycroft was about to rationally explain one of two scenarios. Either his and his baby brother’s oh so cunning plan to evade Moriarty. Or that this was some sort of sick joke orchestrated by the elder Holmes brother to finally make John confess his true feelings he’d harbored for so long regarding Sherlock. He couldn’t bring himself to look Mycroft in the eye, knowing that the latter scenario was roughly 87% more likely to be true. The thought made him let out a sort of choked laugh, and he saw out of the corner of his eye how Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. If only Sherlock were actually alive to hear him think like this, to use percentages so offhandedly. “ _Not the quiet, jumper wearing fool you thought me to be, eh, Sherlock?”_

"Alive. Yes. It was necessary to keep this information from you. Sherlock might have underestimated Moriarty. That day on the roof," Mycroft leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands, resting them on the desk, "we thought we had planned for every scenario. But Moriarty was one step ahead of us. He had snipers aimed at you, Mrs. Hudson and D.I. Lestrade. Had Sherlock not _died_ on that roof, he would have lost the three most important people before he'd managed to escape."

"So he's faked being dead this whole time?" John brought his gaze to rest on Mycroft’s as he swallowed down a mixture of anger and hope. _If_ what Mycroft was saying proved to be true, he’d have ample time in the future for those two warring emotions to fight for ground. For now, he needed to push the shock aside. Shock could make him numb, to miss facts, misread the data about to be given to him. _If_ Sherlock was alive, and _if_ The Lion was needed, that meant he had to pay _very_ close attention. His former NCO did not appreciate repeating himself, and John was quite certain Mycroft would be the same. 

"He's been cleaning up after Moriarty's network this whole time. Tying up loose ends." Mycroft almost sounded apologetic and John put the pieces together. No longer protecting the manila folder with his body, Mycroft placed a hand on it, preparing to slide it across the table towards the ex-soldier. He allowed John a moment, however, to process the news. His baby brother hadn’t been able to see just _how_ much his apparent suicide would affect John. Mycroft had tried to warn him, had even given Sherlock updates via text messages for the first three months until Sherlock admitted that knowing how poorly John was doing was slowing him down. 

"You needed me to show the world my grief. To sell the lie." John felt his anger bubble in his chest. Anger, it seemed, would be winning today’s battle for his prominent emotion. If he wasn’t able to control his breathing he knew in less than 45 seconds his lungs would be testing the soundproof quality of the walls of the Diogenes Club. So he counted to three, breathed in, then exhaled holding the breath to the full count of eight. He repeated that several times, then he remembered, " _Sherlock was tied to a mission. A mission they needed him on. Sherlock was likely in very real danger"_

"Right. I'll have time enough to shout at you both when I get back," he said through gritted teeth, "explain the mission”. John forcefully stamped down the anger, the hope, the pure ache in his chest that came with feeling emotions again after so long. He needed to remain calm, which he could do. He would let it all out when he got home. Maybe 221b needed a few more bullet holes next to Sherlock’s smiley face. Once John got a grip on himself Mycroft slid the folder across the desk. The surface was polished to such a point that the motion hardly made a sound. 

John opened the folder and was greeted by a black and white photo of Sherlock, dated two weeks ago. He was thin, but not too thin, he’d grown a beard and his hair was longer than John had ever seen it. The length had made the curls straighten out slightly, and it brought his hair nearly to chin length. Tears welled up in John’s eyes and he stroked a finger over the familiar face. It had been far too long since he’d see that face, either in person or in photos. 

As far as missions went, this was fairly straightforward. Back during his time in The Jungle, West, who’s codename had been Panther, had specialized in assassinations. The rest of the team had been there mostly as ground support, though they each had been handy in the field if the need arose. But it was Captain John Watson's training as The Lion which prepared him for specialized retrievals, both allies, and enemies that made him qualified for this job. Sherlock had been in Serbia less than a week ago working on what Mycroft called “The last of The Network,” when he had misjudged the reach of one Colonel Moran. 

“My little brother believed him to be one of the men in charge of coordinating the snipers hired to take you, Mrs. Hudson and D.I. Lestrade out the day Sherlock fell,” Mycroft explained, even as John read over essentially the same information. “Moran set a trap, in which he allowed himself to be killed, but he set Sherlock up for capture. There is a prison of sorts, with a reputation for less than humane means of interrogation near where Sherlock was captured. It only took a day to confirm that is where he’d been taken. My first agent was able to verify Sherlock’s location before we lost communication, the agent’s body turned up in a nearby city the next day. My second agent was to retrieve Sherlock by any means necessary however he met much the same fate. This will not be easy, John, but I’ve read your file. It seems you’re quite skilled in this particular milieu. And, if I may say so, your determination will be an added strength.” 

“There is just one catch, and one I am afraid you will not like,” Mycroft said moments before John turned a page in the folder. The next page was an outline of what John would need to prepare for the mission. The title of which in bold letters at the top read, “ **30 Day Plan.** ”

“Thirty days, Mycroft? You expect me to leave him there for thirty fucking days? Jesus Christ!” John pinched the bridge of his nose and fought back the urge to throw the folder in Mycroft's face, storm out, and go rescue Sherlock then and there. Instead, he forced himself to think. If two of Mycroft’s agents, presumably his best agents, had not returned, what good would he be in his state? He hadn’t exactly been working out or eating properly recently. He would be too weak and tired too quickly to be successful if he ran in blind to the dangers. 

“The prison has put in a request for a small contingency of new guards. They do this often, as it seems some go in not knowing exactly what goes on in there. Weak stomachs and all that.” Mycroft began to explain and John felt his stomach roll at the thought. He knew exactly what one would need to stomach in a place like that. “We can get you employed by them, quite simply in fact.” 

“Mycroft, can you give me thirty minutes and a place to shout myself hoarse? I’m being asked to allow Sherlock to be tortured for thirty days while I, what? Train?” 

“We have just the spot here, as it happens. Shall I order us dinner while you _compose yourself_?”

They regrouped a half-hour later, John had indeed nearly shouted himself hoarse inside the small gym on the far end of the club. He had also made use of the punching bag while he vented his frustrations. It had helped, and the soreness in his knuckles somehow had quashed the tremor in his hand. He was just in time to see the same Buttler who had scowled at him on that visit so long ago lay their dinner out on Mycroft’s desk. 

"As I was saying earlier, I'll be able to ensure you have a spot on the next roster of guards. However, you'll have to be able to blend in. From what I understand your language doesn’t have to be excellent, just sufficient enough to understand orders. They don’t hire exclusively from their country, though outsiders are in the minority there. They're looking for muscle, not brains." Mycroft explained patiently over dinner. 

"So," John said around a mouthful of fried fish. He'd convince Mycroft to order fish and chips. Mycroft had pretended to argue against the deep fried food, but they both knew it was for show. Sherlock was always picking on his brother regarding his weight, and who didn’t love a good fish and chip dinner while planning on rescuing a man out of a tortuous prison? "I’ll need to learn enough Serbian to get by, enough at least so I can understand orders." That much had already been said so Mycroft nodded. John took another bite, swallowed then looked down the rest of the thirty-day plan, going over the steps. "How long do I need to fake it?"

"Anything more than 24 hours and my intelligence might run dry. I can only hide in plain sight on enemy ground for so long." Mycroft watched John eat another bite then wrinkled his nose and looked around the room, "My office is going to smell like fish for days," he complained, but it was half hearted and John knew it. After all, Mycroft’s plate was already empty and practically licked clean.

"Consider that the first of the _many_ ways I'll get back at you for letting me think Sherlock was dead," John said without looking up. Though his jest did give him pause, it had been far too long since the last time he’d quipped with anyone. He silently vowed that if he and Sherlock made it back to London alive he would spend no fewer than two weeks time on practical jokes at Mycroft's expense. "I can nod and play the diligent soldier for 24 hours. Get in, find Sherlock, get him, get out. Anything else?"

"Depends on how you are with bombs, Captain Watson," Mycroft said, staring longingly at the window as if he wished to open it, perhaps to get the scent of fish out of the room, or perhaps despite his previous claims to hate legwork, Mycroft wished to be out there now rescuing Sherlock. Nonetheless, for the security of the club it remained bolted shut.

"Defusing, or planting?" John didn't miss a beat, it wasn't the first time he'd been asked that question. "To be honest, not great with either. I’m great under pressure, but not if I know if the cause of that pressure has potential to blow up in my face. That's what Byrd was for. Nerdy little fellow, typically sat back at HQ with his nose pressed to a computer screen. But when something needed to blow up, he turned into a beast." 

"So I've read," Mycroft heaved a great sigh as he considered his options, "I could send in one of my men after Sherlock is secured."

"Probably best, once I’ve secured Sherlock, I will not risk his safety for anything." John took the last bite of fish then looked Mycroft square in the eyes, curiosity now getting the best of him, "How long have you known about us? How did you find out?"

"There was a gap in your military record, explained away by medical training. But that doesn't take 8 months, does it?" He arched an eyebrow then continued, "When my first agent failed to rendezvous with me, I began digging a little deeper. You're quite a remarkable man hidden underneath an unremarkable jumper. It takes a certain," Mycroft paused to choose his next word carefully, " _type_ , to keep up with my brother. Most doctors, military training, or not, would not have been able to pull off that shot."

 _Ah, so Mycroft knew about the cabbie._ John smirked and gave a short, crisp, nod. 

"It took nearly two days to gain access, and I had to promise no less than five favors for the information. But, judging by what I learned about The Jungle, those favors were well earned."

"So, if I'm the third, how on edge will they be?" John had played the second choice during a retrieval once, he hadn't been told he was the second man to attempt the job and that had almost killed him. 

"We're trying a new method of entry. Previously we attempted to infiltrate the prison. You're going in as staff. If all goes well, they won’t suspect a thing until it is too late.”

" _If_ all goes well, " John echoed with a slight change in inflection and gave Mycroft a wry smile, "famous last words."

They lapsed into silence. John continued to read over the folder while Mycroft went to stand by the window as he checked his mobile for anything he might have missed while he and John had been planning. The silence that now settled over them was not uncomfortable, John was used to silence. He was also quite familiar with the way Sherlock would appear to zone out to the average eye. It made sense that Mycroft would also exhibit that trait. Enough time passed for John to read over everything once more, to ensure he didn’t have any urgent questions before parting. 

He was just about to suggest they part ways for the evening when there was a gentle knock on the door. Mycroft’s assistant Anthea entered the room, no words were exchanged, she glanced pointedly at the clock on the wall behind Mycroft’s chair. Mycroft’s shoulders sagged barely enough for John to catch the movement, but he had kept a keen eye on Sherlock’s reaction enough to know that Mycroft was being told he was needed elsewhere, and most likely somewhere he did not wish to be. 

Feeling a dismissal coming John gathered up the papers that were scattered around the desk, shuffled them back into some semblance of order, and put them back in the folder, catching one more glimpse of Sherlock’s photo which made his heart soar. Getting up he put his coat on and turned to face Mycroft. "I'll phone Sarah first thing tomorrow and take some time off from the clinic."

"Good. I'll have everything you need dropped off at Baker Street in the morning. We'll be in touch." Mycroft graced John with a genuine smile before the ex solder saw himself out.

Mrs. Hudson had already gone to bed for the night when John finally arrived home. As he put his key in the lock he paused and realized he didn’t even remember getting home. Had he walked, taken the tube, a cab? He couldn’t recall. He’d been too absorbed in his thoughts about Sherlock, and the earth shattering knowledge that he was alive. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he turned the lock and climbed the steps up to the flat he had once shared with Sherlock.

He had moved out for a short time, after Sherlock’s death. Finding a dingy bedsit, had allowed himself to go numb instead of turning to alcohol, and had only returned to 221B when Mrs. Hudson herself came to visit him. Mycroft had, apparently, given her enough money to keep the flat rented under John and Sherlock’s name for two years. Now, looking back, that made sense. Two years, and Mycroft had just told him that very night that Sherlock had been working on the last of The Network. At the time John had thought it was a simple act of kindness, but now he saw it for what it had been. A plan.

John made himself a cup of tea, mostly on autopilot, sat in his chair across from Sherlock’s and spoke gently into the empty flat. 

“Two years, I’ve been staring at that empty chair. I swear to god, I’ll see you in it again, Sherlock Holmes, you bloody prat.” 

Then, with no one watching, John allowed himself to cry before putting himself to bed to dream of Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we get to some of the feels. I worked HARD on this, with my beta constantly reminding me to SHOW not tell. Which is not how my brain is wired. I'm a very literal person, so when my brain just pumps out what happens, my mind is able to fill in the picture. I forget that not everyone is like that, and I have to re-wire my thinking to imagine what it is others might not see.
> 
> HONESTLY looking for criticisms here (nicely, please!!)
> 
> What is something I could have elaborated more on? Not really talking about adding more to the story, but more details to what is already there. What is something you need expressed better for a better mental image on your part? Again, pretty pretty please be kind, I'm very sensitive and easily sent running away crying. Especially with all my back issues right now LOL.

_ Everything you need  _ apparently came with not one, but multiple tutors who worked in shifts throughout the day. John spent half of the next morning learning the basics of the Serbian language. John had enjoyed Latin back during his school days, but with the knowledge that he only had a short time to learn, and that Sherlock's life depended on it, learning Serbian was anything but enjoyable. 

Language lessons took up ten hours a day, he had a team of four tutors who taught him in two and a half-hour shifts. John himself was allowed a half-hour break for lunch, then another tutor would arrive and lessons would continue. Then after language lessons, a black town car would pull up in front of the flat and whisk him away to a private shooting range. There John would spend an hour, two if he weren't about to collapse from exhaustion, with a long-retired Sergeant-Major who went over everything from how to take apart and clean your weapon to how to use the wind to your advantage when it came to hitting your target. 

The schedule was grueling, but John steadily grew more confident with Serbian and, thanks to the training The Jungle had given him, was able to show off a bit at the range. One advantage of having almost every hour of his day planned for proved to be that of simple distraction. John, as it turned out, was too busy to dwell on the earth-shattering news that his best friend was alive or to let himself feel much in the way of emotions. But it wasn’t the emotionless void he had experienced for so long. This was different, this was like the calm before the storm. It was like being back in Afghanistan and hearing the sirens go off, indicating that wounded men were incoming. During that claxon, John’s mind would go blank and he would slow his breathing down until everything around him was moving in slow motion as he prepped for the OR. 

Mycroft would check in on him via text message once a day. At first John wondered why there was so little contact, why the questions were never about his progress, instead they were questions regarding past missions. But then John realized that certainly each of his teachers would be reporting directly to Mycroft at the end of their shifts. Twice a week Mycroft would invite himself over to 221b after John returned from the range, and they would go over the plan to retrieve Sherlock over dinner. 

On the second to last night, before John was scheduled to leave, Mycroft handed John a folder. Wordlessly John opened it, expecting it to be a single sheet full of details he'd have to memorize.

Instead, it was a grainy photo of Sherlock. It looked to have been taken by a long range camera, and in the dark. John still had the photo of Sherlock that Mycroft had originally given him, he pulled it out and compared the two. The man was  _ nearly _ unrecognizable in the second photo due to the sheer look of fear plastered over his elegant features. 

"This was taken moments before his capture. Before you ask, I had one man surveying Sherlock. He was vastly outnumbered. There was nothing he could have done to prevent capture."

John nodded, only half listening, "How long?" He could do the maths, he had of course done the maths many times as he lay awake in bed, too exhausted to sleep but his mind seemed to have stopped working upon seeing the picture. 

"That was taken four weeks ago, as of yesterday." the elder Holmes adjusted his grip on the ever-present umbrella, perhaps out of discomfort due to the fact that Sherlock had been in captivity for so long. "Since then one body has been transported out of the prison. I personally checked, it was not my brother."

That night, Mycroft stayed at 221B until midnight, drilling John to make sure he knew every detail by heart. Once satisfied he looked at his watch. 

"Tomorrow, you rest. I cannot guarantee there will be much time for resting once the mission has started. Oh, I would get your hair cut if I were you." Mycroft glanced up at the greying hair on John's head which had been styled back into a swoop over his forehead. 

John ran a hand through his hair and nodded. It was longer than he'd worn it since high school. He hadn't much cared for personal grooming before the news, it simply hadn't been important enough to expel energy on before, and since then he had been far too busy to pop down to the local barber for a quick chat and a cut. 

"Right. Yeah." 

"We fly in tomorrow, my team will make contact with the agent I have watching the prison, then we get you in. These," he said as one of his minions with  _ impeccable _ timing entered the flat carrying a large black duffle bag, "are for you." 

The minion placed the bag down on the floor beside John then saw himself out. At a nod from Mycroft John bent down, dragged the bag so it was between his feet, and began going through the contents. 

He pulled out a pair of heavy black boots, similar to what he'd worn in the army. 

"Those, have a hollowed out sole in each shoe, inside the left you'll find a lock picking set while the right has a tiny transmitter. When you secure my brother, or if you yourself become captured and still have your shoes, crush it. It is not a guarantee we can get either of you out at that point. But at least we'll know."

"And these?" John pulled out a pair of uniform shirts. 

"Uniforms, identically matching those worn in the prison. With, of course, a few modifications."

"Such as?" John held the shirt up, "are the buttons incendiary devices?"

"Not at all. Each button on the jacket is hollowed out and contains a liquid tranquilizer that works if injected or ingested. Do be careful with them. However, in each sleeve of the button up shirt, you’ll find the cuffs have a thin metal wire in them. A bit cruder than the lock pick kit, but helpful in a pinch. I’m afraid this isn’t like a Bond film, you won't find a gun hidden inside a secret compartment of your coat. If you will take the hat,” Mycroft paused and waited for John to put the shirt down and pick up the bulky hat, “you will find a sharp implement that has been fashioned into something likened to an old fashion hat pin.”   
  
“From Victorian times? Sharpened to such a point it was a handy tool for self-defense?” 

“Just so.”

John pulled back one of the ear flaps and found a small pin, roughly three inches long delicately placed into the hat. He ran his thumb over the tip and nodded in approval. It was sharp enough to pierce the skin with very little pressure needed. Given the length, it wasn’t a killing tool exactly. In John’s experience, however, once someone had something shoved into their eye they were exponentially less likely to continue the pursuit. 

“No transmitters?”

“Just the one in your shoe. John,” Mycroft, who’d been sitting in Sherlock’s chair leaned forward ever so slightly and spoke in a serious tone, “in this situation, gadgets will do you little good. Brains, wit, and a particular skill set, which apparently you have, will.”

With that, Mycroft stood, buttoned his suit jacket then nodded to John. “Tomorrow, at 8 am.”

“Right.”

That night John slept alone, for what he hoped would be the last night alone, in 221b. Either he would return with Sherlock, or not at all. There were no other options in his mind. 

***

The plane took off with very little fanfare, but that did not still the frantic beating of John's heart. Onboard were John, Mycroft, the Pilot, two minions, and Mycroft’s assistant Anthea. John was introduced to the minions before the plane had started moving. The tall blond man, with a scar on his chin and eyes that constantly roamed, was Longe, the shorter olive-skinned man was named Jaxson. Longe would be assisting him during day one in Serbia, helping him get on location with as little resistance as possible while Jaxson was to replace Mycroft’s intelligence agent who had eyes on the prison.

The flight was not a relaxing one. Mycroft spent the duration drilling information into John and giving him his identity. It had been worked out that John, who spoke a fair amount of German thanks to family holidays most of his childhood, would pose as ex-German military recently relocated to Serbia in need of work. The prison was not  _ formally _ Serbian military, so they were not required to exclusively hire Serbian military personnel. 

John already knew his identity like the back of his hand, but he flipped through the folder anyways. He hadn’t seen his passport or ID yet. Someone has put a lot of effort into an identity that would be used for less than 24 hours. 

Sebastian Osterhagen. Age 37, retired at the rank of Captain. He skimmed through the rest of the papers, making sure they were in order, then handed over his John Watson identification to Mycroft. For the two hour flight, Mycroft tirelessly asked John questions.

"What are you to do when you find my brother?"

Running his hand through his recently shaved hair John let out a frustrated growl. The first hour of questioning had gone smoothly, John had kept his anger in check, but now being asked this for the third time since boarding the plane, John was growing exasperated. "Oh, I don't know, Mycroft. Snog him?"

"John, this is hardly the time for jokes." Mycroft let out an annoyed sniff, but there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Snog him? Are you finally admitting your feelings for him?"

"Perhaps," the ex-soldier said before he could stop himself. "I should have told him... before. Might have changed things." 

"It would have only made it that much harder for Sherlock to do what needed to be done." Mycroft's voice was far more gentle than John could ever recall. He looked up sharply and gave the older man a small nod.

"Perhaps, but he deserves to know." John shook his head, clearing his thoughts and returned to Mycroft's original question, "When I find him, I will assess, inform, secure, extract. I will not reveal myself to him if I think it will put him in jeopardy, if he is incapacitated I will signal you."

"Very good," came the reply, and John stared out the window, hardening himself to the task at hand, and did his best to answer Mycroft's further questions with as little snark as possible.

  
  


***

  
  


John spent his first night in Serbia alone in a dingy hotel room. His meager belongings, a bag with three changes of uniforms, toiletries and a few tricks Mycroft had provided lay at the foot of his narrow bed. John paced, too worked up to properly sleep. It had always been like this before a mission, nerves, and adrenaline coursed through him, making it impossible to sit still or relax. But this was more than just nerves, this was anticipation. There was a very real chance that by this time tomorrow he'd be laying eyes on the man he'd mourned over.

The plan was simple enough, as far as extractions went. This was, thanks to Mycroft, an instance where John would not have to use brute force to get to the target. He wouldn't have to slip past a slew of guards, wouldn't have to duck and cover when someone walked by, and if all went well there would be very little sneaking around. Mycroft's intel, if it were accurate, stated there were only three prisoners being  _ questioned _ at this particular facility. He would join the company of three other guards and escort a small convoy of supplies to the prison. He would then wait for his assignment, which Mycroft and his team would ensure was prisoner quarters guard, not interrogation guard, find which cell had Sherlock and get the hell out of there. 

Before dawn, John had packed, unpacked and repacked his bag four times, taken two showers, and forced himself to practice his breathing exercises in an attempt to calm himself down. It had mostly worked, and in the hours where the night reaches peak darkness, he managed to get almost a full hour of sleep.

The convoy ride was uneventful, if not full of apprehension. John practiced his Serbian, creating small talk with the three young guards. No one said much, and no one gave out names, which suited him just fine. The name Mycroft had given him didn't exactly roll off his tongue, and he was afraid he'd botch the whole mission before he got on location.

Not only that, his mission was not an intelligence-gathering one, he didn't need to know who they were, what they looked like, or where they had their first snog. His mission right now was, get in, keep his head down and somehow find Sherlock before his anxiety took over. 

The words "Find Sherlock" echoed in his head like a mantra. Finding Sherlock was all that mattered. 

The prison, when they finally arrived around midday, was unimpressive. A gray cement building, strikingly similar to buildings found on most military bases. Mycroft had insisted John memorize the layout of the building, but seeing it in person seemed to make the mission real. They passed through a tall chain link fence with barbed wire strung along the top, and drove around the compound to the back then parked next to a loading dock. 

John volunteered his help unloading the supplies, which earned him an approving nod from the superior officer. When the van had been emptied of supplies he even offered to move it off to the side so it would be out of the way of other vehicles. The man on duty tossed him the keys and John caught them with ease. He took a few moments to drive it off to the side then slipped the vehicle's key off the keyring and hid it under the mat on the floor. He locked the vehicle, knowing he could easily smash a window to get back inside, then tossed the keychain back to the other man. He held his breath as he walked by and was directed inside the building to find the other men he had arrived with. 

After nearly four hours of orientation _ ,  _ John's first task was to bring the prisoners their meager supper. He nodded sharply to the man watching over the mess hall, when he opened the door for John as he carried a tray with three small meals and three glasses of brownish looking water out of the room. He’d memorized the layout of the prison but thought it smart to ask for directions before he stepped out of the mess hall. 

The prison itself was made up of two floors, one at ground level and a basement. The mess hall was on the ground floor, while the cells containing the prisoners  _ and _ interrogation rooms were below. As John walked down a flight of crude cement stairs he allowed himself a brief worry that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to take the stairs. He pushed that worry aside, however, because there was no point fretting over an unknown. He would cross that bridge when he got there. 

The basement was damp, water dripped down most of the cement walls and created slimy puddles on the floor that John was careful to sidestep. He had to walk nearly the entire length of the prison to get to the far end where the cells were kept, which took him a full five minutes. The distance between the only stairs leading up or down and the cells would be a problem. His quarters were not far from the mess hall, but that still meant they had to be able to sneak around the base for at least the same amount of time it took John to get there, if not more if Sherlock’s condition slowed them down.

At the far end of the basement was a single door which led to a short hall, and another door at the other end. Both doors were locked, but John had been given the key to both. Beyond the second door was a room full of six cells, three on each side of a narrow corridor. Just inside the door was a small area for the guard to sit and keep watch. 

The cells were nothing more than small boxes. Each prisoner, if they were of average heights, had just enough room to stretch out on the hard cement floor. Which meant Sherlock would be unable to lay flat. Their toilets were a drain set in one corner of their cells. The whole of the room was lit by three single bulbs dangling from their cords in the space between the cells. 

The first cell held a young man who looked Middle Eastern. He looked up expectantly when John entered, obviously used to receiving his food first, but John ignored him and kept walking. 

The second cell had a tall man, half naked. John didn’t let himself look long, he would have time enough later to assess Sherlock. That didn’t stop him from noticing the thinness of his arms, or the volume of cuts, bruises, and what was either burned skin or an infection. Sherlock’s hair was long and matted, and the thick beard on his face looked like it was in the same state of care. He did not look up when the new guard walked by, j ust shifted from sitting with his back against the damp concrete wall to curling into a defensive position. John was  partially  grateful for that. He was not ready for Sherlock to notice him. Not yet. 

The final occupied cell held an elderly man who didn't appear to be suffering from any physical forms of questioning. He was asleep, however, and John wondered what state his mental health was in.  Still, none of the prisoners seemed to be watching him, they all kept their eyes elsewhere, mainly the floor by their feet, which made John's next step easier. 

He quickly tore a button off of his jacket and depressed the needle into the chunk of food that had the audacity to be called meat. He did that with one other meal, leaving the middle plate on the tray free of tranquilizers. He slid the first plate under the slot designed specifically for food then used the rifle he'd been assigned to prod at the man. 

"Up," he barked in Serbian. Hoping the harshness of the language would help disguise his voice, "dinner!" 

The man started awake, hunched forward. Instead of pulling the tray closer he fell forward onto his stomach and began eating like a ravenous animal. John couldn’t help but assume this was the only meal these three men were given daily.  He felt a pang of guilt as he watched the older man tear into his food, knowing that Mycroft’s plan was to blow up the compound one he and Sherlock were clear. The Doctor inside of him, who had sworn to do no harm to any man, wanted to take both of the prisoners with him, or leave their cell doors unlocked when he and Sherlock left. He knew, however, that their chances of escape would be slim, even if they woke up before the explosives went off. 

John moved back to Sherlock's cell, wordlessly slid the non drugged plate under the bars. He had to position himself carefully so, if Sherlock looked up, he would only see the back of him as he gave the man his food.  Sherlock didn’t appear interested in the food. Instead, he remained in the corner of his cell, his knees drawn up to his chest, head bent pressing his forehead to his knees. It was like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. John had to bite his lip to keep from calling out to his friend, to tell his friend he wouldn’t hurt him, that he was finally safe. His job wasn’t done, though, he needed the other two prisoners unconscious before he revealed himself to Sherlock. The last thing he needed was a row breaking out when two men learned they would not be escaping with the third. 

With one man left to feed, and drug, he quickly went to the last man’s cell and slid the final plate under the slot. This man ate with the same ravenous abandon the first had. Mycroft had said to count to one hundred, assess the drugged men, then count to one hundred again before giving Sherlock any real attention. So that's what he did. He stood between the first man's cell and Sherlock's and counted. Then he walked to cell number one, saw the copper-skinned man slumped over the remaining food breathing heavily, then checked on the older man who was very much in the same state. 

The second count to one hundred seemed to take ages. John kept his back to Sherlock, kept his breathing steady and  his hand on the gun like he were simply a man on duty. But he could feel a set of eyes on him as the plate of food scraped across the floor, closer to him, instead of towards the man inside the cell. Sherlock obviously knew there was something wrong with the food, clever man. 

"They're usually begging for more. What did you do to them,  new guy ?" he was asked in Serbian.

Though weak and spoken in a different language, there was no denying that was the voice of Sherlock.  It still held the rich undertones of arrogance Sherlock portrayed when he was in full deduction mode.  John swallowed hard then replied, "Vatican Cameos," in as steady English as he could muster. 

There was a shuffling, and the scrape of Sherlock's plate against the concrete floor, J ohn wasn’t sure which direction this time. His ears were too busy picking up the movement of the man inside the cell. Out of the corner of his eyes John saw two to-thin hands wrap around the bars as Sherlock moved from the back of the cell,  from his safe corner, to kneel up front beside the cell bars.  "Jo-?" 

"Quiet!" He barked out in Serbian,  as harsh as he could force himself to be in case he was being watched , but turned his face just enough so Sherlock could see his profile. In a much kinder voice he whispered, also in Serbian, "mild tranquilizer in their food, I have enough for three more people. Sorry to shout."

There was a soft hum from inside the cell as Sherlock assessed the situation. John's heart beat wildly in his chest and it took every ounce of John's willpower not to turn around, fall on his knees and grasp at Sherlock through the bars. 

"Cameras?"  John chided himself for having to ask. He'd been so intent on getting into this very room that he'd completely failed to check for security after he unlocked the first door. 

"None in here, two in the hall, one at each end,"  Sherlock replied in a weak wheeze. If John had to guess Sherlock had probably reopened some fresh wounds when he'd moved quickly over to the bars. He was probably in a lot of pain. 

"Do either point in?" He could verify himself of course but Sherlock would be hyper-aware of any security features.

"No. They figure a man with a gun, plus bars, we're fairly secure. Not only that, but the guard also is never given the keys." Disgust wrapped around every word as Sherlock spoke. It made sense now, how Sherlock hadn’t been able to simply deduct his way out of the cell. What good would his deductions do if the guard didn’t even have keys to get him out. 

"Is the night guard left alone, or should I expect company?" 

"You have three hours before someone comes to relieve you for a toilet break," Sherlock said quietly and rested his head against the bars of his cell.

"Perfect."

John stepped from the side of Sherlock's cell and looked through the  single dirty window in the door that led to their escape route. Currently, the hall was empty, and while both doors locked, and he would most likely hear the first door opening, it would take less than twenty seconds for someone to traverse the hall and make it to the second door. John thought back to the door when he had entered, considering his options. It opened inward, thinking fast John used the single metal chair provided to him and wedged the back of it under the door handle. It wouldn't necessarily stop anyone, but it would slow then enough for John to put a few rounds into whoever was attempting to enter. 

Sending one more hasty glance down the hall, then he made himself take a moment to make sure the other two prisoners were still out. Only then did John allow himself to sling the rifle he’d been issued over his back by the strap and fall on the floor beside Sherlock. Nothing else seemed to matter to John as he placed both hands around Sherlock's on the bars. Sherlock’s hands were cold and clammy, his wrists were both marred by deep red welts, fresh blood seeped slowly from beneath old scabs never fully given the chance to heal. John had seen wounds like that before, he knew they came from crude iron manacles. They painted a picture of Sherlock being held up by his wrists while… while what, exactly? Torture, John’s brain filled in for him as he quickly took in ugly wounds across his body. Whoever had done this to Sherlock had treated him with unbridled rage. 

"Alright?" he asked, despite knowing Sherlock wasn't anywhere close to alright, he just wanted to hear Sherlock’s voice again. How many times had Sherlock asked him if he were alright during their times together? Three times alone during their first encounter with Moriarty at the pool, once while John had a bomb strapped over his chest. It was just like them, to ask a question when the answer was blazingly obvious. 

"I'll manage a while longer." a corner of Sherlock's lips turned up into a faint smile, drawing John's attention to them. Sherlock's bottom lip was split in three places, fresh scabs indicated the cuts were at least reopened earlier that day if not inflicted then. 

They were also chapped so severely that John wondered how long it had been since he'd last had a sufficient amount of water.  _ Or clean water, _ he thought back to the brown liquid he’d been directed to give the prisoners. 

"John, don't. Not now," Sherlock's expression grew wary and shook his head slightly as John began to catalog the state of his well being, "Get me out of here and then I'll allow you to play doctor until you are satisfied." 

"Right. Escape." John plopped down on the hard floor, twisted his left foot around so he could tear his shoe off. He pulled out the innersole then retrieved the lock picking kit. As he put his shoe back together, put it on and tied the laces he looked up and gave Sherlock a boyish grin, "your brother gave me toys."

Sherlock watched in fascination as John expertly picked the lock. He had never known that John possessed the ability to pick locks. Before opening the door John held up a hand, motioning to Sherlock to wait while he checked the hall again. Gone was the cautious doctor, he’d been replaced with a calculating soldier. Instead of emotionally pulling Sherlock from the cell and dashing off with him like this was one of their chases down a side street in London, John was taking every precaution. John walked smoothly from the cell to the door and peered down the hall, then twisted his head up to look at the camera above the door. He grunted something, but Sherlock wasn’t able to make out what he’d said, if anything. 

“Those cameras could be problematic…” John muttered, then judged the distance between each camera. “Roughly six meters, I can make that quickly.” From his position John wasn’t able to gather much detail regarding either camera. He would have to find out when the moment to disarm them came, which would be soon. 

John took one more fleeting glance at the far door then went back to where Sherlock was attempting to get on his feet inside his cell.

"Ready?" He asked as he opened the door just wide enough for Sherlock to hobble out. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want a shock blanket. 
> 
> My beta played with some re-wording in this chapter. I CANNOT take credit for all of this, she took my idea and changed the wording, showed me where to add in more details. This was the first part of the fic she really helped me with and the part that had her show me what style I was and where I needed to be. We edited this together first, then fixed the rest of the fic after. :) 
> 
> If you like Good Omens, go check her out under the author name BRNZ here on ao3

Sherlock grunted and gave his friend a brisk nod. For the first time since being tossed inside the cursed cell he stepped out on his own, not dragged out by his hair, or wrist, or ankle. Sherlock Holmes defied every man who had laid hands on him in the past month and walked out, though he nearly stumbled as he stepped over the lip of the cell, and would have fallen as pain rocked him to his very core, but John, wonderful John, was there and caught him by his shoulders. 

"I wish I could tell you to take your time. But time is something we don't have. We have two cameras to get past quickly then we have to make our way to my quarters. In my travel bag I have another uniform. Then we just walk out of here." John explained, knowing that providing Sherlock with a few details would help give the man something to focus on, which could help him push the pain out of his mind long enough to get them to safety.

"I'll try, John," Sherlock sucked in a pained breath then forced himself upright. John gave Sherlock a grim, but proud nod and helped Sherlock take a few more steps closer to the door. 

"Get out of this building on your own, and I promise I'll sling you over my shoulder and carry you the rest of the way myself." John walked Sherlock over to the corner of the room, where his chair had sat. He picked up a bottle of water he'd been given and handed it to Sherlock. The detective's eyes grew wide at the clean water and he reached out with a trembling hand as if he couldn’t believe the gift he was being given.

"Drink that, and take this. I’m afraid it was all I could smuggle in,” John pulled a small baggie, no bigger than a credit card out of his pocket and slipped a pill out of it, “Oxycodone,” he said in way of explanation, “I'll take care of the cameras. Sit here,” John unwedged the chair and placed it beside Sherlock, then helped his friend sit, “and if anyone other than me walks through that door, shoot them." John produced a Smith and Wesson from the small of his back and handed it to his best friend. "Ten rounds," he said, "one is already chambered and the safety is on." 

Sherlock nodded, swapped the bottle of water to his left hand and took the pistol in the other placing it carefully on his lap so the barrel was not facing himself or John. "Is…. Is all this real?" He looked up at John with childlike eyes, looking all the world like he was asking if Father Christmas was real. John crouched down in front of Sherlock, placed a gentle hand on his knee and nodded. 

"Real. Sherlock, if things go pear shaped there's something I need you to know." He licked his lips and forced himself to hold Sherlock's gaze, "I love you, you daft fool, and if we get out of here I'm going to kiss you whether you like it or not. Not until,” he ran a finger very gently over Sherlock’s battered lip, drawing a shudder from the man, “these heal, however.”

"Then get me out of here." Sherlock guzzled half the bottle in one go then tightened his grip on the pistol. “I hear them talking, the cameras _are_ monitored, but only to a point. It seems the man in charge has a bit of a gambling habit, as does the cook. Your timing is, rather impeccable, Watson. If I’m right, and I’m never wrong, they’ll be cutting a deck of cards right about now.” 

“No time to waste then,” John said, and patted his pockets. Out of his left trouser pocket he produced a swiss army knife. He flicked through the options inside the tool before opening up a small pair of scissors. He clicked them together a few times for show, then winked at Sherlock before slipping from the room. Closing the door behind him he looked up, considered the camera positioned directly above the door then looked down the hall at the second camera. John had never been one for long distance speed, but in a sprint, he could easily make that 6 meters in roughly a second. The camera above him had one wire snaking out of the concrete wall and into the device. 

Deciding it prudent to start furthest away from his target and work back, he calmly walked across the hall, stopped directly under the furthest camera, then looked up. This one also had a single wire. In one quick motion he reached up, thankful for the low ceilings, and snipped the wire with the tiny scissors. The moment he knew he was through he pivoted on his heels and faced the door leading into the cells. His heart was beating fast now that he’d completed the first action that would draw attention to himself. Familiar excitement coursed through him as he thought ahead. He needed to move quickly, to shut the other camera off and he silently cursed to himself that he couldn’t have disengaged them both at the same time. 

He sprinted down the hall, his feet making wet slapping sounds on the damp floor. John had always worked well under pressure, it had been what made him such an asset to The Jungle. So it was with steady hands he reached up and snipped the wire on the second camera roughly five seconds after he’d disabled the first. Job done, he jammed the lock into the key and reopened the door. Sherlock still sat where he’d left him, slowly sipping at the bottle of water. He was trembling so hard a drop of water had dripped down Sherlock’s lip and had begun to bead into his beard. The pain medicine would kick in shortly, but that meant there was still a window of time where Sherlock would be operating in complete pain, he just hoped that wouldn’t last long.

“We need to get moving, love. Cameras are down, it won't be long before someone notices.” John called quietly to Sherlock, who nodded and recapped the water bottle after a final sip. 

It took Sherlock a full precious 30 seconds to stand, but John used that time wisely. He produced another pistol, identical to the one Sherlock held, flipped the safety off and aimed it at the far door. Sherlock shuffled to John’s side and looked out the narrow window.

“Where were you hiding that?” Sherlock asked as they both glanced down the hall to make sure it was still clear before John turned the knob and held it wide open for him.

“Oh, I came prepared. Mycroft certainly thought I wouldn’t need the second pistol, remind me to tell him he was wrong.” John flashed Sherlock a grin, but his grin faltered when Sherlock hunched over in pain and gripped at his stomach, the detective had to partially turn his back to John in order to place his shoulder on the wall nearest him for support.

John allowed himself ten seconds to inspect his friend's state. What he saw made his fists clench in anger and his heart in sympathetic pain. They had worked Sherlock over with the ruthless skill of someone intending to inflict pain over a sustained period of time. Brutal but efficient. John had seen worse, but not on someone he cared about.  
  
Hair hung in lank matted strands, brushing his shoulders. Grime and filth coated his skin, interspersed with half-healed cuts and scrapes. Despite the cool dampness of the room, the only protection offered against the cold concrete floor and walls was a thin tattered pair of loose trousers. No kindness had been offered, no bedding, shoes, shirt. Only a drain in one corner that reeked of human waste.

Worse though, was the physical state Sherlock was in. Painfully thin, muscles wasted from lack of nutrition and exercise, John was almost afraid to touch him in case he only added to Sherlock’s pain. It was the sight of his friend's back that made him hiss in anger, the skin was mottled in shades of purple/blue and yellow/green bruises. Clearly he had been beaten repeatedly and thoroughly and it made John’s heartbreak to see how his normally vibrant friend had been reduced to a wrecked shadow of himself. 

“Keep watch,” John said gently, used the chair to prop the door open so Sherlock would have a clear view, then stripped off his thick coat. It was heavy and warm but the fabric was harsh and would only abrade already painful wounds. Instead, he removed the uniform shirt he wore underneath, handed it to Sherlock “Here, put this on.” 

Shrugging back into the scratchy coat he eyed Sherlock fumbling with shaking fingers at the fabric and with murmured apologies for brushing against cuts and bruises he slid the fabric over his friend's frame. Thankful how loose it was, he buttoned it quickly, then with a quick questioning glance for permission, gathered up the matted hair, bundling it under the thick knitted cap, tugging it securely in place.  
  
John let his hand gently touch Sherlock’s cheek in the briefest of caresses, then reached up to slide the hatpin out of its hiding place, pressing it gently into one trembling hand.“Hatpin, incredibly sharp. Aim for an eye,” John Watson, formerly known as The Lion, let his hand slip back down to Sherlock’s cheek and brushed his thumb over the grime coating his skin. “Ready?” 

Sherlock nodded but gently leaned into the warmth of John’s palm. It had been too long since he’d felt a kind touch, the warmth of someone’s skin that _wasn’t_ about to hurt him. 

“One hand on my shoulder, if you lose contact, drop because I will shoot at whatever is behind us,” John observed Sherlock for one more long moment then gently took the handgun away from his friend. He was afraid that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to withstand the weight once they got moving. The hat pin was light, and could at least provide Sherlock with a small amount of protection. Considering the state of Sherlock’s shaking hands, the best the pistol would do for him would be as a blunt object to hit someone with. He slid the second pistol into a hidden holster under his jacket then looked up at his friend. It would be up to him to shoot anyone who stood in their way, and he was fine with that. 

“Understood.” Sherlock nearly whimpered when John removed the warmth of his hand but gathering what little composure he was able to muster, leaving the water bottle on the chair, placing his left hand on John’s left shoulder. Then, with the help of the only person to ever truly _love_ him, left his prison for hopefully the last time. 

“Listen closely. To get to my quarters, we go straight across most of the complex, up a flight of stairs, then go past two intersecting halls, take the next left, one more intersection then a right. My door is the second on the right. I share it with the day guard. He _should_ be asleep. I’ll tranq him as soon as I enter. Whatever happens, Sherlock, _do not stop moving.”_

Frowning at how carefully Sherlock was moving, he carried on quietly “Let’s try not to shoot our way out until we have you safely disguised in uniform. And with some bloody boots on.”  
 _Sherlock was aware John was growing more concerned about his physical state, the quick darting glances, too frequent and too worried gave away the depth of his concern._

“I would rather not start a manhunt before our chances are better.” John had inched them forward as he spoke, and they stood at the doorway that led back into the main prison building. Sherlock held his breath as they eased through the door unnoticed, and as quickly as he was able to manage on numb bare feet, they headed towards their next escape milestone.

With nothing else to keep his mind busy, Sherlock counted steps as they moved steadily away from his cell. It was nearly five hundred full steps until they reached the flight of Stairs John had mentioned, then eighteen painful steps up. At step 14 Sherlock nearly started crying as the pain made each step as torturous as what the men had done to him over the past week. But John, wonderful John was by his side and gave him an arm to hold onto for support. Sherlock half dragged himself, and was half pulled up the last four steps, but then they were leaving the stairwell, and he had to make himself remember the directions John had given him. 

Seventy-five steps brought them to the first set of intersecting halls, another forty to the next, then it was thirty- eight and they were turning. He wanted to ask John where he had learned the finer skills of extraction, what exactly he had done as a military _doctor_ to prepare him for this situation with such ease. It was utterly fascinating that despite the high stakes, John hadn't broken a sweat, his breathing was as steady as if he were reading a crap mystery novel and he moved through the base as if he owned every inch of wet concrete. John’s boots hardly made a sound on the hard floors, and Sherlock had to go back to counting before he listened to the tiny voice in the back of his head that was trying to tell him this wasn’t really happening. 

At fifty-six steps since their last turn John stopped and pushed open a door. Sherlock couldn’t even remember if they had seen another living soul, he had kept his eyes fixed on the back of John’s neck and couldn’t remember much aside from the stairwell. John placed a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, nearly making the detective flinch as he was used to such touches bringing pain, but instead he was gently led inside a room only twice the size of his cell. Along one wall was a set of bunk beds built into the concrete, the other had a small toilet and sink. There was a small dresser, presumably for clothing, and a single chair. John gently pushed Sherlock into the chair, then ripped a button off his coat and walked to the sleeping man on the bottom bunk. John bent over the sleeping figure, did something Sherlock couldn’t quite see, then tossed the button to the floor.   
  
“Alright?” the doctor asked as he came to kneel in front of Sherlock again, trying not to notice just how heavily Sherlock was breathing. Sherlock would need to rest for a short time before they continued on, he could see that much. He could allow them fifteen minutes at most, any longer than that and the odds of successfully escaping the building were too slim, hopefully by then the pain killer would have kicked in so Sherlock wouldn’t be in as much discomfort as they made their way through the most dangerous part of the escape. He just had to hope that getting Sherlock dressed wouldn’t exhaust him any further.

“Is this still real? I.. I see you every day.” Sherlock whispered, placing the hand not holding the hatpin on John’s leg as he passed by him. The fabric of John’s trousers was soft beneath his fingers. It made him remember the closet full of suits made out of fine material he had back in London. It had been too long since Sherlock had worn something he hadn’t stolen. He took in a shaky breath and looked up at John’s face. 

His doctor had aged since they’d last seen each other. He had remembered John as mostly blond, with grey around the temples, now his short hair was mostly grey and the face that had always had a few laugh lines or wrinkles was noticeably less smooth. This was John, most definitely, the vision that would come to him each night was the John he remembered before he had faked his own death. However, the tiny part of his brain that was still refusing to let him have hope was powerful. “You come and visit me every night, just appear beside me when I can’t sleep. But… I can never touch you. When I try you just disappear.”

“Sherlock, I’m here, I swear to god I’m here.” There was a soft sound of metal on concrete as John placed his gun on the floor, then two soft hands were cupping his face. “I’m here, I’m real. I finally came.” John fought back tears as he did his best to quickly reassure Sherlock that this wasn’t just the dream of a desperate man.

“I… I love you too. Kiss me?” Sherlock whispered as a single tear fell down his cheek.

John was stuck at just how vulnerable Sherlock was. He’d clearly been seeing things, him apparently, as a coping mechanism. It wasn’t unheard of, but knowing that Sherlock had conjured up an image of him for comfort sent dual darts of compassion and pain like a dagger straight to John’s heart. Knowing that the phantom version of himself couldn’t touch or be touched gave John the tools he needed though, to prove to his friend that this was real. Which, might, in turn, provide him with strength enough to get out of here. It was not what he had imagined their first kiss to be like. There was no romantic build up, no sexual tension making them both think and act like idiot teenagers. But John knew that this was right, this is how it would have always been for them. Some desperate act during a desperate moment.

He leaned in, not allowing his senses to dwell on the state of Sherlock’s unwashed body. That didn’t matter right now, it was the state of Sherlock’s mental wellbeing John needed to reach. His hands still cupped Sherlock’s face; he brought his lips so they were of an even height with Sherlock’s. The left corner of Sherlock’s mouth was the least damaged, so that is where John focused the pressure of his kiss. It wasn’t hard and passionate, but he applied just enough pressure to be certain that Sherlock could feel it. So Sherlock wouldn’t be able to harbor any doubts that the kiss happened. John had never pictured Sherlock to have facial hair in any of the scenarios where he’d indulged his mind on what their first kiss would be like, so the rough beard on Sherlock’s face felt strange against his face but the way Sherlock nearly melted at the touch made John’s heart fill with warmth. 

“More when we get out, yeah?” he brushed a thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone and was about to stand when Sherlock just nodded, then began trembling as tears fell down his face in earnest.

“Hey, none of that. You’re dehydrated enough as it is.” John thumbed away a few tears before forcing himself to stand. He needed to get Sherlock into some proper clothes, get him some medical attention, then he would hold the man close and let Sherlock cry until his heart stopped aching.

He quickly moved to his bag which was still completely packed and sitting at the foot of the bunk beds where he had left it. It appeared untouched, but he wasn’t concerned about that. If anyone had taken a rummage through the contents they would find nothing shocking, just some equipment for his gun which he had been permitted to take, clothing and toiletries. He began pulling items out of the bag and tossing them onto the floor beside where Sherlock still sat crying, though he was doing his best to get control of his tears, John noted. Once the full set of the second uniform was on the floor beside his friend he turned his full attention back to Sherlock.

“Let’s get these torn trousers off, get you in something a little warmer, then we’ll get the hell out of here. It won't be long before they discover the cameras aren’t operating.”

John had Sherlock lift his hips up out of the chair and he gently hooked his fingers under the waistband of his trousers. They slid off Sherlock’s form with ease and pooled at the floor by his feet. Sherlock was quite naked underneath the ratty trousers but neither man batted an eye, it certainly wasn’t John’s first time seeing another man naked, and Sherlock was too exhausted to care. John left the shirt on Sherlock, it would be easier for him to simply put the second one on after Sherlock was dressed. He helped Sherlock into a clean pair of pants, trousers identical to the pair he was wearing, though tailored a bit longer thanks to Mycroft. Socks came next and Sherlock had to stop to stare down at his feet. He wiggled his toes beneath the socks and cracked a smile at the simple comfort of having his cold feet covered. John gently slid the boots onto Sherlock’s feet and apologized when Sherlock winced as he tied them on tightly.

“Can’t have you falling because they’re too loose, sorry, love.” 

The heavy woolen coat was next and John made sure to put it on carefully. He let Sherlock test to ensure the weight wasn’t more than his torn skin could handle. He left it unbuttoned then stepped back to give Sherlock a once over. At a quick glance, aside from the dirt and grime on Sherlock’s face he certainly did look like a guard. 

John went back to his bag once more and dug out a silencer for his gun and a protein bar which he unwrapped and pressed into Sherlock’s hand.

“They’re absolutely disgusting, but do your best to eat some of it. When you’re ready, we’ll go.” He quickly attached the silencer to his pistol then went to the sink and wet a small cloth that had been folded and placed on a small table beside the sink. 

“How?” Sherlock began to ask, but John shook his head and nodded to the protein bar. 

“Secret ops, eight months. I’ll explain later, alright?” Sherlock nodded and John gave him a wide smile. “Good man.” John once more bent down beside Sherlock, and as the detective ate he gently used the wet flannel to wipe most of the grime from Sherlock’s face.   
  
They’d been in the room for nearly ten minutes before Sherlock was ready to leave. John was certain, gambling habit or not, _someone_ knew something wasn’t right. So he motioned for Sherlock to wait while he ducked out of the room and checked the hall. It was clear, but John knew that wouldn’t last and a feeling of apprehension began to wash over him.   
  
“Right,” he said as he entered the room and shut the door mostly behind him, “We’ve got about five minutes of navigating before we’re out of this hell hole. Same as before, hand on my shoulder, but this time we shoot whatever moves. When we’re out we run directly North. If you cannot run, I _will_ carry you. Can you find North, or will you need my compass?" Sherlock didn't say anything but he looked uncertain so John dug into the pocket of his jacket and handed over his swiss army knife. Sherlock slipped it into his own pocket then placed his left hand on John’s shoulder and adjusted his grip on the hat pin with his other. 

“Let’s go, John.” 

Sherlock didn't count steps this time. Instead he kept his eyes ahead of them and did his best count the seconds as they passed. They went forty-five seconds before they saw anyone. When they came across their first person, John shot without hesitation. A single bullet found its way into the forehead of the young man, directly between the eyes. Sherlock regarded John with amazement. He knew, of course, that John was an excellent shot. After all he’d seen where John had shot the cabbie from. But John hadn’t even flinched when it came to shooting that man. Nor did he bother to check his pulse. John, the man he had always considered to be his guardian angel, had turned into an angel of vengeance, here to serve justice without thought or hesitation. 

As they passed by the corpse John paused briefly. With the familiarity of someone who had done this many times in the past, he slung the dead man's rifle over his shoulder. John, it seemed, collected guns like some people collected rocks or baseball cards. Sherlock couldn’t figure out if it were for added protection for them, or to prevent someone from coming along behind them and collecting the gun themselves. He made a mental note to ask John once they were free. Then, without a word, they were on their way past the bleeding corpse and further down the hall. 

John shot three more men before an alarm was raised. Grabbing only the magazines from their weapons and hurried their pace down the hall. He wanted to slow down, wanted to give Sherlock time to compensate for his injuries. But the shouts that came from down the hall told him they were out of time. John made a tactical decision. He grabbed the magazines out of two of the rifles he had slung over his shoulder, pocketed them, then tossed the two guns on the ground leaving himself with the single rifle, spare ammo, and his handgun. Sherlock was able to piece together that John was collecting the guns for both previously pondered reasons, but John was smart. The weight of so many old rifles would slow them down. Luckily they were all the same model so the magazines would work regardless. The voices behind them drew closer and Sherlock had to squeeze his eyes shut against rising panic. He could not fall back into the hands of those men. He would rather John shoot him dead than for that to happen. But lovely John realized something was wrong when he took a step forward and Sherlock didn’t immediately follow.

“Are your ribs broken?” he asked sharply as he spun on his heels and faced Sherlock. 

Sherlock barely had time to shake his head before John handed him his rifle and slung Sherlock up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. 

“Shoot whatever moves behind us," John said in a hushed tone, then started sprinting down the hall in the direction of the supply entrance. With one hand holding Sherlock steady on his shoulder his accuracy would be less than perfect. That didn't stop him from felling one more man as they rounded the next corner though. The victim slumped to the ground leaving a streak of crimson on the wall.

"I have eyes on the door," a short time later John grunted out, shooting at a second man who had appeared round a corner. John’s bullet found the second man square in the gut. It wasn’t an instant kill shot, but it was cripplingly painful with the added potential to be deadly if the victim did not get good medical help soon. John simply ran over the guard screaming in agony on the floor and braced himself for the impact against the steel door. 

Slamming his hip against the bar latch, carefully opening the door far enough to scan for potential threats. Even a lone man out smoking, if gone unnoticed would be deadly now. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean they weren't there. John shifted his focus to Sherlock and spat out a curse when he heard Sherlock's labored breathing. The bastard had lied, at least one of his ribs was most likely broken. 

He looked around the dimly lit area again, this time focusing on anything he could use around them to aid in escape. When he saw it he was so pleased he almost converted to Christianity. Thankfully the utility van he'd arrived in was still parked in the far shadows. He ran to it and tried the door. 

"Still locked." He gently slid Sherlock off his shoulder, resting the man's back gently against the side of the truck's cab. Then he used the butt end of his rifle to smash the side window in. John used his sleeved arm to brush most of the broken glass from the seat onto the floor then took Sherlock's elbow and helped the man inside. 

"Keys?" Sherlock asked as he slid over to make room for John. 

"You mean this?" Adrenalin had now seemingly replaced the blood inside his veins which made John giddy. John reached under the mat and produced the single key he had stashed there earlier in the day and held it up for Sherlock to see with a thrilled grin on his face. 

"Drove here in this thing. I may or may not have prepared for this." John flashed Sherlock a grin as he climbed up into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. "I just couldn't count on it still being here. Now either buckle up or brace yourself, the road we're taking doesn't exactly exist."

Sherlock audibly groaned as the seatbelt crossed over his chest, but he clicked the buckle into place and though his face had lost all colour he gave John a weak nod and John threw the vehicle into gear. The detective once again found himself watching in fascination as his flatmate expertly handled a vehicle bigger than most found in London.

"You… you can drive?" He asked between painfully ragged breaths. 

"Can drive or fly almost anything under the sun. Except a train. Never got around to that. Next on the bucket list. Can you imagine, our own personal getaway train?" 

John was enjoying this, his good humor despite the men swarming out of the building behind them, guns raised, was infectious. Sherlock felt his lips curl up into a genuine smile and he was reminded of their first case.

_“But, he wasn’t a very nice man”_

_“No. No he wasn’t, was he?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Frankly a bloody awful cabbie.”_

 _“That’s true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Then John laughed, a sound Sherlock knew he would never forget._

_“Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.”_

Something hard plopped to the seat next to Sherlock, he looked down half expecting to see another gun but found a boot instead. He was relieved, if not confused. The escape on foot had left him with barely enough energy to keep his head up. He thought he was only still awake because the pain wouldn’t allow him sleep.   
  
“Remember the lock pick? Well, same place, you’ll find a transmitter. When you're safe, crush it, stay hidden and wait for Mycroft’s men. Same codeword, do not show yourself for anyone who doesn’t use it first.” 

“When _we’re_ safe, John.” Sherlock amended but John shook his head.

“You, darling. If I’m by your side when that happens then it will be a good night. But if not, then so be it.”

“I will not let you be captured by those people!” Sherlock spat out, fear rising in his chest as he imagined John sentenced to a fate similar to his past few months.

“I know you won't. That’s why I have a gun.” John risked a glance over to Sherlock to make sure his implication was understood then looked back out the windscreen. 

He was driving with the lights off through the sparse trees that grew around the prison. They were not on a road, and the van was bouncing like mad which made Sherlock grit his teeth in pain, but he said nothing. Any pain he felt now would hurt less than whatever those men would inflict on him if they didn’t get out successfully. Not only that, pain from a bouncing vehicle meant they were escaping far more quickly than if they had been forced to walk, or John to carry him. He could endure a little longer, because it meant one way or another this chapter in his story would end.

“How far?” he asked, checking the side mirror but it was too dark to see much other than the dust the tires had kicked up, though he could hear the sounds of angry shouts in the background.. 

“A little over fifteen kilometers outside the fence. Which…” John squinted into the darkness and his face lit up in a grin, “is right there. Hold on Sherlock, we’re going through!” 

There was the ear piercing sound of metal on metal as John tore the van through the chain-link fence. A strand of barbed wire broke off and the tension made the strand fly into the truck, through the broken window but either John’s coat was thick enough that it hadn’t harmed him, or his adrenaline was too high for him to notice. The van rocked violently as the back tires cleared the broken fence, but then they were through and John let out a whoop of joy and threw the van into a higher gear.

“If I didn’t know better, John,” Sherlock called out over the sound of the engine picking up speed, “I would think you were enjoying this.” 

“A bit, yeah!” John called back, but kept his eyes ahead of them. The trees were getting just thick enough that John had to keep a close watch. After fifteen minutes of traversing by moonlight, which was now mostly hidden behind the steadily thickening trees John was forced to flick on the lights if he wished to continue either to increase his speed or maintain their current speed. 

They drove in silence for most of the ride. John was too focused on not driving them into a tree and it was all Sherlock could do to not cry out in pain with every jostle. John would cast Sherlock a quick look here and there, and Sherlock would always make sure to meet it. John would smile, or he would look at Sherlock with concern, and their glances shared unspoken words between them. When they’d gone all but one kilometer John cursed as the engine began to sputter. 

"Out of petrol," he slammed his fist against the steering wheel in frustration then looked over to Sherlock, “We walk from here. Sorry, love.”

“Well put your boot on, you idiot.” Sherlock tossed over the boot and held up the transmitter to show John he had it then closed his fist around it. John slipped his foot into the boot and hastily tied it. He slid out and without bothering to take the key or shut the door he jogged around to Sherlock’s side to help him out. 

When Sherlock had both feet planted firmly on the ground John looked at the rifle and made a split second decision. He grabbed the gun, tore the magazine out and tossed them both into the woods in separate directions then he turned to his friend who was still holding the transmitter in one hand, and the hatpin in the other.

“Can you walk, or should I carry you?”

Sherlock just made a pained face, and was about to tell John he could walk when they heard the sound of a distant engine. John flicked the safety on his gun to the off position, shoved back under his trousers at the small of his back then scooped Sherlock up in a fireman’s carry again and took off at a dead sprint. He would have preferred to hold the gun, but the woods were dark and unfamiliar. He needed to keep his hand free in case he stumbled and had to catch himself

Physical exercise hadn’t been part of Mycroft’s training regiment, but John knew from experience how important it could be. He’d found that once he’d gotten a grasp of the basics of Serbian he could multitask. He would work out in the flat while his tutors drilled him. In fact, he had fond memories of one of his tutors shouting his lessons to him as he jogged up and down the stairs. The tutor had looked more than annoyed and had mumbled something about not getting paid enough, but now he was incredibly grateful. Sherlock was not heavy, the already thin man had lost too much weight, but it was enough that if John hadn’t prepared his body their chances would have been lessened. 

John counted the seconds as they passed. He could walk a kilometer in ten minutes. He’d never timed himself running while carrying a man, but he guessed a jog with extra weight would be about the same as his normal walk. When he counted fifteen minutes he stopped, put Sherlock down and held up his hand for silence. He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes and listened. The night around them was silent except for typical woodland night sounds. He let out a slow breath then began to look around their location for a spot to hide. 

The forest was old, established and the heavy canopy meant there was no scrub to provide cover so he took Sherlock’s hand and began walking. They walked for two minutes before John found something of use. It was an old tree that appeared to have been blown down by a windstorm, soil encrusted roots like a halo around the base of the mighty trunk He walked around it and helped Sherlock sit in the darkest shadows the tree had to offer. 

“At night, you’re most likely to be seen by your eyes or the white of your teeth.” He whispered, not sure if Sherlock already knew that information or not. He assumed so, but now was not the time to risk their lives on an assumption. 

Sherlock opened his palm and held out the transmitter to John who took it, placed in on a flat rock then stomped on it. He was intending to walk away, to keep watch a bit further down the path they’d just come from when Sherlock’s hand on his leg stopped him. Sherlock simply shook his head then pointed to the ground beside him. 

John let out a soft sigh, then nodded and sat down. Sherlock immediately scooted closer. John reached around to his back and took up his handgun once again, then wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and held him close, both for comfort and for warmth. Sherlock shifted a little, making a pained sound before he managed to find a comfortable spot, but settled eventually and rested his head on John’s shoulders.

They waited for what felt like hours in tense silence. John had to remind himself that it had probably only been a quarter of an hour or just slightly longer since he’d sat down beside Sherlock. But that didn’t help ease the stress that was beginning to make his shoulders tight. Every moment counted. Every moment they waited gave the enemy that much longer to find them. After what felt like an eternity the sounds of the night around them changed. The night birds stopped calling, and insects went quiet. John squeezed the hand that had been resting on Sherlock’s shoulder gently then unwrapped himself from around his friend so he could take his gun up in both hands. They soon heard a voice not far off to their right. John allowed himself to relax a fraction, if it were pursuit, they’d most likely be coming from their left. But he did not allow himself to be fooled. He had been told to wait for the codeword, and not to reveal himself under any circumstance until he’d heard it.

“Watson? Mr. Holmes?” a voice called out, but neither man answered. The call came again and John thought he recognized Longe’s voice but still, he waited. 

“Watson? Vatican Cameos?” Longe called out again, this time much closer. 

John motioned for Sherlock to stay, then to his eyes and in the direction of the newcomer. Sherlock nodded and John stood up. Almost without making a sound he rounded the cover of tree routes then said, “Here.” 

A man emerged from the shadows and swiveled in his direction. It was too dark to tell but John was certain there was a gun pointed at him. Which was fine, because he too was aiming a gun at the shadowy figure. Then the shadow shifted and there was a crackle of a radio as Longe spoke, “We’ve found Watson, over.” 

“And my brother? Over.” 

Mycroft’s voice sounded worried and a bit too high pitched as it came through the radio. But at the sound of his brother’s voice Sherlock stepped out beside John and said quietly, “I’m right here,” He placed an arm on John's shoulder to steady himself. But before Longe had a chance to relay the information over the radio there was a rustle in the woods behind them and the sound of a gunshot split the night. 

It all happened so fast that John was hardly able to register the commotion and process it in a way his brain could understand. Sherlock flinched beside John, then the already weak grip on John's elbow weakened even more. Before John had time to turn to Sherlock there was an ominous thud as Sherlock's body hit the ground.

Longe fired three shots into the space behind John, just behind where Sherlock had been standing, and he heard another body hit the soft dirt, but John didn’t turn to see the man behind him, instead, he looked down to see Sherlock's thin form on the ground at his feet and he nearly shouted his anger into the night before he remembered to be silent. They had been _so_ close! Less than a half hour before Sherlock was out of these godforsaken woods and well on his way to safety. John wanted to punch something, to shoot the man dead who had snuck up on him. But Longe had already done that. 

If there were more enemies nearby they'd soon be closing in on them thanks to the gunshots, and John was _not_ leaving Sherlock behind, even if the shot to his friend had been fatal. "Take this," he hissed, thrusting his pistol into Longe's hand. Then he bent down with a grunt of exertion lifted Sherlock's body into rapidly tiring arms. But now was not the time to worry about fatigue. Now was the time to get the fuck out of here so he looked at Longe and hissed as urgently as he dared, "Go, go, go!" 

Longe needed no further encouragement. He took off at a dead sprint the way he'd come and didn’t stop to make sure John followed. He set a grueling pace, but John refused to give heed to the way his muscles screamed. If Sherlock were alive, this would all be worth it. Longe led them for five minutes through the woods, confident in the direction they were fleeing. When they'd run for three or four minutes he slowed down, and shoved John’s pistol into a holster to free up his hand so he could squeeze the radio on his shoulder. He spoke quickly and in a hushed tone, 

"Holmes down, status unknown. We are probably being followed. What are our orders? Over."

"Meet at rendezvous. Over" 

_Don't be dead, don't be dead. Oh god! Don't be dead!_ Those thoughts bounced around John's head with every step. He wanted desperately to drop his best friend to the ground, to feel for a heartbeat, but it was all he could do to maintain the speed set by Longe and his grip on his friend. They ran for several more minutes until Longe stopped short, holding a hand up in the air for John to wait. From somewhere on his belt the agent produced a thin penlight which he used to shine a short code into the darkness ahead of them. At first it seemed like they were alone in the woods, but after flashing the code once more ahead of them a small clearing John hadn’t seen through the darkness lit up with the headlamps of two large utility trucks commonly found on a military base. 

The sudden light stung John’s eyes and made him take a few staggering steps backwards, shifting to face away from the painful brightness. He tried to blink away the spots but suddenly that didn’t matter because as John was trying to adjust to the light, two strong men appeared out of his blind spot and wrestled Sherlock from his arms. 

John tried to fight, he tried to grab at Sherlock as anger and fear ripped his heart open. This night had gone so terribly wrong. Sherlock might be shot, or dead, and now two men whom he didn’t know were carrying his best friend away from him, across the clearing and loading him into the back of one of the two trucks before John could even take Sherlock’s pulse. He started to storm off after them, anger pushing his aching muscles and exhaustion aside, but Longe placed a hand on John’s shoulder and shook his head. Before John had time to think, to ask Longe what the fuck his deal was the lorry holding Sherlock Holmes tore out of the clearing and disappeared down a narrow dirt road.

"What the fuck!" John spun on his heels and turned to look at Longe who was now typing a message on a mobile phone. "I was to stay with him!"

Longe ignored John's tantrum and kept on calmly typing on the mobile without so much as a raised eyebrow.

"Is that Mycroft? Of course it is. Give it to me." John yelled, his anger now completely overriding any exhaustion he had felt during the last mile through the woods with Sherlock slumped over his shoulder. He reached for the mobile, intending on ripping it out of the agent’s hand and sending a rather demanding text to Mycroft, but he was so exhausted that his attempt failed spectacularly and he nearly fell to the ground..

"Doctor Watson, if you'll get in the second vehicle, then we can follow him." Longe sidestepped John's second attempt with ease, clearly not nearly as tired as John was and not afraid to show it. He pocketed the phone then walked to the running vehicle. 

John spat on the ground, balled his hands into fists and stalked after the man, not wanting to test if he would be left alone in the woods if he didn’t hasten to the vehicle. When they both reached the utility truck John let out a harsh breath and rolled his eyes when Longe handed him back his pistol. He contemplated aiming it at the man, to demand an answer but Longe just gave him a look that told him if he tried anything so stupid he would in fact leave John behind to find his own way out. So, John checked that the safety was on and he stuffed the gun into the holster he had on his hip then climbed up into the lorry. The moment the doors shut Longe put the lorry in gear and drove off in the direction Sherlock had been taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhiiiiii all..... how's that for a chapter ending???? **innocent smile**
> 
> It would be a shame if something happened to Sherlock when John wasn't around. Wouldn't it?


	4. Chapter 4

They drove in silence for the better part of an hour, lone trees gave way to sparse residences, then the night sky lit up with the orange hue that indicated a city was nearby. Eventually they pulled up to a small Villa protected by a stone wall. John forced his tired eyes to take in details as they approached. The wall was whitewashed stone with a large iron gate protecting the driveway, there was no house number, or a name for the estate. There was an empty guard house with a small intercom box. Longe entered a code into the intercom and slowly the gate opened to allow them access.

They passed by a row of hedges, once on the other side John saw the house for the first time. It was a pink stone building with white trim, three stories and a balcony on the upper most floor directly above the main entrance. It sat in the middle of a suspiciously green lawn that spoke of incredible amounts of money to maintain both the landscaping and upkeep on the house. The front of the house was lit by two large spotlights, and nearly every window was lit up from the inside. The driveway turned to crushed gravel as it drew near to the house, and when the tires stopped crunching beneath them John kicked the door open and marched straight up to the main door.

He had every intention of breaking the door down, finding Mycroft and demanding to see Sherlock. However he did not have the pleasure of kicking down the door. Mycroft himself opened it when John was less than a meter away. He stood just inside the door with the same impeccable three-piece suit he’d been wearing at the Diogenes Club, leaning on his umbrella. Judging by the look on his face, he was not prepared for what John did next. Without thinking through his actions, or what they could or could not accomplish, John stormed straight up to Mycroft, balled his left hand into a fist and punched him square in the nose. Mycroft's thinning hair flopped dramatically to the side as he recoiled, and if the stakes hadn't been Sherlock's life or death, again, John might have laughed.

"Where the hell is Sherlock?" the ex-soldier snarled through clenched teeth, spittle spraying out in a wide arc in front of him.

"Doctor Watson, you know nearly as much about my brother as I do." Mycroft had a hand clamped over his bleeding nose, it caused his words to come out muffled but there was no denying the tone of exasperation. "If you would kindly calm down." 

John shook out his fist and winced both from pain and the blood seeping between Mycroft's fingers. He hadn't meant to hit him that hard, in fact he didn't make a conscious decision to do it at all. The fear and anger at losing Sherlock again had clouded his judgment. He hung his head as shame washed over him and wished he had a handkerchief to give the man. Mycroft of course didn’t need one to be offered to him. He pulled his own silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket and with a wince of discomfort he pressed it against his injured nose.

"Shit, Mycroft, I'm sorry," John croaked out, guilt made him shift uneasily on his feet. In a subdued voice admitted, "I don't even know if he's alive."

Mycroft looked up sharply , as if trying to determine if John was telling him the truth, or simply trying to find an excuse for his actions. After a moment he relaxed as he began to understand. He gave John a quizzical look, silently asking him to elaborate on his previous statement.

"They took him from me before I could check for a pulse. We ran through the woods in the dark, then suddenly there were lights everywhere, my night vision went to hell, then two men were pulling Sherlock away from me and loading him into the back of the first vehicle. They didn’t give me time to catch up before they were d riving him… where? Here? And either Longe didn't know, or he wouldn't tell me." John hung his head and relaxed his fingers, though he couldn't prevent the slight tremor in his left hand from making the tips of his fingers twitch.

"My men were tasked with ensuring Sherlock’s safety, as you were aware, John. However, I apologize for their overzealousness. They  _ were  _ supposed to keep the two of you together, to prevent incidents like this," Mycroft gestured to his nose then let out a deep sigh. “I am sorry, John,” he stepped aside to allow John into the house then placed a hand on John’s shoulder. 

It was weird, how reassuring the gesture was, coming from none other than Mycroft Holmes. John was either too tired to be taken aback by it however, or simply in desperate need for just that. Reassurance.

"John, he’s alive. I can see now why you were so angry. Come in, and if you would be kind enough set my nose, that should provide us both with enough time to debrief each other on our end of events.” 

So, John stepped inside and followed Mycroft through the house. What he saw of the house was beautiful. Whoever had done the interior decorating had gone for dark polished wood with decorative carvings in the molding, which somehow contrasted and complimented the stone exterior. Paintings of landscapes that reminded him of Spanish vineyards hung in nearly every room. Mycroft opened a tall wooden door and led them into what must have been a dining room at one point. Now it was clearly the heart of Mycroft's operation. The table was covered in laptops, surveillance equipment, radios, and had at least seven maps unfolded, one with pins in it. The elder Holmes brother walked to a first aid kit that was hanging on the wall, then sat down in a chair, put the kit on the table and motioned for John to pull up a chair in front of him.

“I should wash my hands first,” he said, realizing at the same time that he desperately needed the loo. 

“Perhaps you should also dispose of that jacket, John?” Mycroft called after him as one of his minions, at Mycroft’s bidding, showed the ex-soldier back up the same hall and to a small bathroom. 

John shut the door behind him, he heard the latch click and the sound seemed to echo in the tiny room.  He could feel the beginnings of an exhausted hysteria creeping over, making it hard to focus on the decor of the room. That part was fine, what did it matter if the room was made out of marble or gold leaf? However with Sherlock still  _ somewhere _ and in a state worse than which he’d found him in a few hours prior, John could not allow himself time for a panic attack.  He slapped a hand across his own cheek hoping the shock of pain would be enough to short circuit the wave of emotions.

“Get it together!” he told himself out loud. His voice sounded scratchy and a little too hoarse, like he had been shouting. Though he had no recollection of shouting. Perhaps he had been, during the ride here. That certainly would explain why Longe had kept looking over to glare at him. He made it over to the sink and placed his hands on the cool stone countertop. Marble he realized, as details slowly began to sink in. He allowed himself to remain hunched over the sink, sucking in deep breaths for a full minute, then he stood up and glanced at the reflection in the mirror and watched as his lips formed the words,  “He’s alive.” 

A man John hardly recognized stared back at him. He had too much grey around the temple, made more evident by the harsh light and the shortness of his hair. There were new bags under his eyes that he knew weren’t simply from the past 38 hours, which he had somehow survived with less than three hours of sleep. What surprised him the most, however was the steady stream of tears falling down his face. He hadn’t even known he was crying. 

He tried to think back, to determine if he’d been crying when he’d punched Mycroft, or when he’d entered the command center. But no one had looked at him strangely, which either accounted for impeccable training or that he’d only fallen apart once alone in the bathroom. Before his tears could turn into a fit of what a former girlfriend had once called ugly crying, John turned the taps on and splashed cold water into his face. 

After a moment of letting the cold water relax his face, he stood and as he began to turn away from the mirror to use the toilet on the opposite side of the wall. A blotch of something dark on his back made him pause before he’d turned fully away, and he quickly unbuttoned the remaining buttons on his jacket and held it up in front of him. The back of his jacket was coated in a dark sticky liquid. He touched it and his fingers came away coated in blood. Sherlock’s blood, he realized. It had turned nearly black against the gray of the wool, and had soaked almost all the way through. Sherlock had been shot then, and judging by the quantity of blood on his jacket, had bled most of, if not for all of, the duration of their run.

John balled the jacket up and tossed it into the bin in the corner, washed the blood off his hands then relieved his bladder before sucking in a few more calming breaths and returning to the command center.

Mycroft kindly said nothing about the redness in his eyes or how puffy his face was when he entered the command room five minutes later.  Instead he flipped open the first aid kit and again nodded to a chair. John, grateful to give his tired body the chance to sit, felt himself relax as he began to examine Mycroft’s nose. It didn’t appear broken, so as John set about cleaning up the mess and testing the fragile bones under Mycroft’s eyes to make sure he hadn’t damaged anything else, he explained everything from the moment he had drugged the other prisoners and confronted Sherlock. 

“I spoke with Longe, he said he didn't know if my brother was alive or not until he arrived here, with you. He thought it best to keep the two of you apart because you were clearly exhausted, and if Sherlock required medical treatment on the ride here you would have wanted to be the one to provide it. He knew the men who were riding with Sherlock, and he knew one of them is a skilled nurse. It was more efficient for him to be able to focus all his attention on my brother, than on trying to prevent you from working on him in such a state of exhaustion.” Mycroft explained as John began packing up the first aid kit, “if it is of any consolation, John, I was also informed that Sherlock woke nearly ten minutes after the vehicle left the clearing, and that he did not stop shouting at my agents.”

John allowed himself to smile fondly at the thought of Sherlock being a downright prat to the two men unfortunate enough to be stuck in the back of the lorry with him.

“In fact,” Mycroft continued, “he didn’t stop shouting for you until he arrived here. The doctor on duty had to sedate him in order to find where Sherlock had been shot he was so uncooperative.”

“Where was he shot?” John asked, the only thing keeping him from shaking Mycroft and demanding an answer quickly was that Mycroft himself seemed… not unconcerned, but not worried. That alone told John that Sherlock was stable, so he most likely had not been shot near the heart, or another vital organ. In fact, if that were the case John very much doubted either of them would be having this conversation, they would instead be nervously waiting by wherever Sherlock was being operated on. 

"He has a single bullet wound to the left shoulder, he lost a lot of blood, which it seems ended up on your jacket, but he is expected to recover and gain full mobility back. Which, I assume you will help with.” Mycroft explained and rose from his chair, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he stood. 

“Can I see him? Is he here, or somewhere nearby?” John asked and tried to not show his disappointment when Mycroft gave him an apologetic look.

“He's currently in surgery. But he is here, so when he is out you’ll be the first to see him. A few years ago the owner of this property had the basement converted into a state of the art medical facility when he fell ill." Mycroft watched John closely, and nodded in approval when John relaxed his shoulders at the knowledge that Sherlock was nearby. It amazed him how codependent his brother and this doctor had become towards one another. Some might call it unhealthy, but Mycroft secretly found it endearing. His baby brother had finally found someone he cared about, and who cared about him in return just as much. 

“What happened to him, the owner of the estate?” John asked and the question surprised Mycroft. 

_ Ever the doctor,  _ he thought, then answered, “he died. Brain aneurysm.”

John nodded and relaxed a little, though the skin around his lips was still tight with worry as his thoughts went back to Sherlock.

"Is there anything we can get for you, John, while we wait?” The question was gentle, so gentle in fact that John turned his initial reaction to reject help into a simple nod.

"I'm fine, just tired, worried and a little bit hungry." He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried not to feel guilty that he was about to eat when Sherlock had been deprived of food for so long.

"Am I correct in assuming you will not want to sleep in your own room while Sherlock is still in surgery?” Mycroft asked and John nodded in affirmation. "Then let us at least get you a meal and fresh clothing. Perhaps a shower?"

After John had taken care of his bodily needs, Mycroft led him through the house, down a lift and into the basement. Unlike the rest of the house, which was warmly decorated and inviting, the basement reminded him of Molly's lab. It was all white walls, glass doors, and metal surfaces. The air stung of disinfectant, which was of some comfort to John. When the world was uncertain, and friend's lives hung in the balance, there was something comforting to the doctor about being in a hospital. Most people, of course, would see a hospital as a bad omen, as a sign that things were incredibly unfortunate. John, however, knew first hand that if you'd made it this far, you'd at least survived long enough for the doctors to help give your body a second chance. He knew that Mycroft would not let just anyone perform surgery on his brother. If he hadn't been so tired, if he wasn't as emotionally involved, perhaps he would have fought to be in the operating room. 

"He's just through there." Mycroft used the tip of his umbrella to point to a steel door at the end of the hall, "I'm afraid there isn't an observation room, but I've arranged it so you won't be bothered if you wait in his room. His is the second door on the right." 

"Ta," John started to walk away but stopped after three paces, spun about-face and with all the sincerity he could fit into a sentence without sounding fake said, "I'm sorry I punched you."

Mycroft simply nodded in response, then looked down to the end of the hall towards where Sherlock was being worked on.

"Take care of him, I have some business to attend to, loose threads to tie off, and a bomb squad to arrange. If you need anything, you'll find your personal mobile and a few other belongings in his room."

John faltered at the glass door for a moment. He tried pushing on the door, then pulling but it wouldn't budge. After flashing a glance to Mycroft's retreating form to make sure he hadn't witnessed John Watson, invader of Africa, Afghanistan and Serbia, stopped by a simple door, he tried sliding it. It slid noiselessly aside and he entered the surprisingly large room. Whoever had paid for the renovations for this clinic had clearly spared no cost. The bed was at least a Queen size, bigger than his bed back in London, but smaller than Sherlock's with four plush pillows and a white blanket that looked as if it had been made out of clouds.

_ You know you're tired when you start comparing clouds and a duvet, Watson.  _ John chided himself as he continued to look around. 

Along one wall was the typical medical equipment you'd find in a hospital room. A pitcher full of water and a few glasses sat on the small table beside the bed. Across from the bed was a flat screen TV, under it a dresser. On the dresser sat John's mobile, a change of clothes, including pants, and a bag that no doubt contained toiletries.. 

_ Those would have been nice to have when I showered.  _ John had used some expensive brand of shampoo that smelled of lilacs when he'd showered earlier, but somehow he doubted Mycroft's minions would have packed him a travel sized container of hair products. On the wall just to the left side of the bed, across from the medical equipment was a small sofa. John didn't even bother to check his mobile, he just grabbed a pillow off the bed, kicked his trainers off and stretched out on the sofa. He was asleep before he had a chance to determine whether or not the sofa was comfortable.

John woke when they wheeled Sherlock into the room about three hours later. He stood sleepily by his friend as one of the doctors went over the surgery with him and hooked Sherlock up to the monitors in the room. 

"We should get him in a sling, so he doesn't damage his muscles. But the bruising on his chest could indicate broken ribs." The doctor spoke in Serbian, making John glad he'd taken the time to learn the language. He didn’t bother asking the doctor for his name, instead he bent forward and carefully inspected the bullet wound. The wound itself was covered by a bandage, but it appeared to be directly over the fattier part of his shoulder just by his armpit. He would need to look at the medical report, but it appeared to have missed the wider part of Sherlock’s shoulder blade. 

"Yeah, I'm fairly sure he has a few,” He said after a moment, remembering that the doctor had just spoken to him, “and the way I carried him out of there, I wouldn't be surprised if I caused another one to break," John answered in Serbian and gritted his teeth as a wave of guilt settled in his stomach. He hated that it had been necessary to carry Sherlock out. Hated that he might be responsible for yet another injury on Sherlock’s already battered body. But he reminded himself that Sherlock might not have made it out of there if he hadn’t intervened. "Let's hold off on a sling until we can get an x-ray. I'll make sure he doesn't move it. Plus, I know him, the first thing he’ll do once he wakes is try to rip the sling off. He’s a bit of a stubborn arsehole at times"

The doctor, whom John still hadn’t asked for a name, handed him Sherlock's chart and gave him a tight smile, which faded immediately when John flipped open the folder. "We had to compile a list of known injuries. It isn't pretty. That’s on page three, if you wish you avoid it.."

John nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the report. He would read over the surgery notes, but he had seen some of the injuries that had been inflicted on his best friend. He didn't need to read about them in cold clinical terms as well. 

"He might wake once the sedative wears off, we trust you'll let us know of any problems. A nurse will check on him every hour, and either I or my associate will be back in the morning." The doctor waited around for a moment longer, but when it became apparent that John had no further interest in him, he saw himself out, and walked down the hall towards the lift. 

John stayed up for a little while longer after they were alone. He watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall in shallow breaths, assuring himself that Sherlock  _ was _ alive.It had been a long and emotional day. Not quite as coreshaking as the first day he went home alone to 221b, and certainly the emotions he now had coursing through his mind and soul were a stark contrast to those he felt the day of the Fall. He gave himself ten minutes, standing silently by Sherlock’s side to soak in the fact that despite everything, despite the last eighteen months, and the torture he’d gone through over the last month, Sherlock was alive and once again at his side. When John’s eyelids refused to stay open any longer he gently swept a lock of sweaty hair from Sherlock’s face, then returned to his guard on the couch where he allowed himself to fall into a light sleep.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Sherlock became aware that he was no longer unconscious when the sound of faint snoring filled his ears. His eyes were still heavy, refusing to open, so he made an educated guess that the snoring was coming from John. His eyes felt glued shut and ignored all efforts to open them to verify that it was John and not one of his cellmates. 

_ Drugged, then. Sedated for surgery.  _ He remembered standing next to John, hearing a twig break behind him. He had shifted his weight on his feet, intending to turn to see who was approaching when a sensation similar to being hit with a small rock smacked into his left shoulder then everything went dark as his battered body had hit the forest floor. 

_ Shot in the shoulder? _ Sherlock wiggled his left shoulder and groaned as pain washed over him.  _ Yep. _ There was a soft rustle from the other side of his bed, then John’s hand was resting on his uninjured shoulder. 

“Sherlock, try not to move. They haven’t put you in a sling yet. I wouldn't let them until we can get some x-rays done on your ribs. ” John's voice washed over Sherlock, it was music to his ears after hearing nothing but rough men shouting at him in an attempt to get information out of him.

“John… I can’t open my eyes.” Sherlock grasped at John’s hand with his and felt the beginnings of panic well up inside him. His first days in Serbia had been spent in utter darkness. Alone, cold and hungry they had left him in a room too small for him to lay down, most closets in your typical London flat were bigger than that room had been. 

“It’s just the sedative, it’ll wear off shortly.” John bent down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Can I get you some water? I’ll help.” 

“Don’t… don’t go.” Sherlock whispered, clutching harder at John’s hand.

“I won't, I can reach it.” John’s fingers squeezed his right shoulder gently, and Sherlock relaxed. “Breath for me, love. Inhale to the count of three, then exhale slowly to the count of six. Let me have both my hands so I can get that damned straw out of the wrapper, then I’m all yours.” 

“How-” Sherlock’s voice cracked, he cleared his throat and tried again, “how long?” He forced himself to breathe as instructed while waiting for John to answer him.

“You were in surgery for four hours. You’ve been asleep for another four, maybe five hours.” John sounded exhausted, he wondered how much sleep John had managed to get. "It's just past 9 am, the day after I found you. Your surgeon was just here to check on you." 

“Where am I?”

“Some Villa in Belgrade, Mycroft apparently,  _ knows a guy _ out here.”

There was the sound of water being poured into a cup, then the crinkle of a paper wrapper on a straw. Sherlock took a few breaths as John had instructed, then said, “You called me  _ Love _ .” 

“Mmm, and darling, if I remember correctly.” John chuckled, that soft chuckle he’d reserved for crime scenes or highly inappropriate moments like when Sherlock was practically naked in Buckingham Palace. It gave the foreign room a familiar feel and set Sherlock at ease. 

“Hand out, I’ve only filled the cup halfway, but I’ll help keep it steady. Your muscles are bound to still be weak from the sedative, and I’d rather you not have to rest in a wet bed.”

Sherlock stuck his right hand out in the air in the direction of John’s voice. John placed the cup gently into his grip, and put his other hand behind Sherlock’s head to help hold it up while he took a couple careful sips from the straw. It wasn’t cold, but it was wet, and clean. The bottle of water John had given him earlier had been the first clean water he’d had in months. It was a little cup of heaven and he found himself fighting back tears.

“Hey, hey…” John said gently, and presumably put the cup down somewhere because in a moment both of his hands were cupping both of Sherlock’s hands and John’s lips were brushing across Sherlock’s knuckles. 

“You sound tired,” Sherlock said, when all other words seem to fail him.

“Mm well, I did just break you out of a Serbian hell hole of a prison and lug your far too skinny arse across half the countryside.” The warmth in John’s voice made Sherlock want to bury his face in the man’s chest. “I got some sleep, but I was too worried about you to sleep for long.” 

“C’mere.” Sherlock felt sleep pulling at him again, and he wanted John close. But John needed sleep, or at least rest. Which worked out well considering Sherlock was already laying in a bed. He patted the bed beside where he lay, blessing the foresight of whoever had installed a queen sized bed with room for two tired men.

John needed no further encouragement, quickly rearranging the bedding to account for two John carefully slid into bed next to him, Sherlock wanted to roll over, to curl up against John’s side, but sleep was winning the battle. 

He made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a snarl, and John somehow seemed to understand. The doctor settled on his side and rested an arm across Sherlock’s abdomen.  _ Good John, smart John, brave John…  _ Sherlock thought he might have said that out loud, but he couldn’t be sure as he slipped into a peaceful dream. 

John smiled sadly at his best friend. Sherlock had been tortured to a point where most men would have gone insane. He had experienced more pain in the past few months than anyone should have felt in a lifetime. Yet, despite everything, despite his own fear, and without even using his eyes he was able to deduce John's own state of well-being. The doctor shifted carefully in the soft bed, not wanting to disrupt the mattress in case the jostle created more pain for Sherlock. He settled on his side, his arm tucked up under his pillow. He'd regret the potion after a few hours, it would aggravate his own old injury, but that would be nothing compared to how Sherlock would feel. It had gone unspoken between himself and Mycroft that Sherlock would receive as little pain medication as possible because of his past experiences with drug abuse. John would, of course, ensure that Sherlock didn't suffer, but whatever was given to him, John would have strict control over the dose himself. 

"Brave John...." Sherlock muttered in his sleep, then the tight lines of stress, worry and fear on his face began to relax. In his sleep he looked similar to how John remembered him. The sharp angles of his face were much sharper now with the drastic weight loss, his lips were still split open and he had a faint bruise on his cheekbone that spoke of an old injury. A punch to the face, perhaps, or an object had been used. But perhaps, with a haircut, a shave, and a few proper meals, he would look similar to the man who’d jumped to his own demise. 

John felt his anger begin to rise again, with Sherlock asleep and unable to read his every thought he let himself feel that anger. He'd been trained, briefly, on how to survive a physical interrogation. The course had gone over what to expect from your captors, how to prepare for what Sherlock had gone through, but he’d never dreamed he would require the information. Now he wished he had paid more attention. He wished that at some point, he’d thought to bore Sherlock with the details of that course. But hindsight is always 20/20, and there was little he could do about it now. All he  _ could  _ do was be there for Sherlock to do his best to get his friend into therapy, and help him in any way possible.

John let himself cry, as he lay in the soft bed next to his best friend. He cried for the pain inflicted on Sherlock at the hands of some ruthless men, he cried over the extraction having gone slightly wrong. He cried because there was Sherlock  _ alive  _ beside him. His chest rising and falling, soft snores filling the air as a verbal cue that this was very real. He let his hand wander, incredibly gently, from Sherlock’s abdomen up and over his battered chest. Taking care not to apply any pressure to the discolored skin over his ribcage, until his hand rested on Sherlock’s neck where he could feel Sherlock’s pulse. 

As John cried, he ran his thumb over the thick beard on Sherlock’s chin, over the sharp cheekbones, and before he knew it he was leaning in to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. He let himself cry, because tomorrow would be another day, and tomorrow he would have to be strong for his friend. While John had never gone through torture of a physical state, he knew first hand what it felt like for your brain and heart to betray you at the slightest things. Sherlock would need a strong body beside him, guiding him through his first steps of recovery. And John would be damned if that wasn’t him. John fell asleep, his face and pillow wet from tears, but a smile on his face knowing that Sherlock was there, alive and beside him. His right hand gently cupped around Sherlock’s cheek, fingers sliding into Sherlock’s unkempt beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that wasn't that bad? right? My last A/N was just to rile you up. 
> 
> One more chapter... I'm not ready for this to end.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here it is... the last chapter. See you in the notes below.

“Home,” Sherlock whispered through tears and some heavy breathing. It had taken most of his energy to withstand the flight to London and the car ride from Heathrow to Baker Street They had been forced to rest inside Mrs. Hudson’s flat for an hour before he was ready to make it up the steps to their own flat. 

Mrs. Hudson had been shocked, as of course John knew she would be. He hadn’t mentioned anything to her about his mission, even when she had asked why so many strange people were coming in and out of her flat the month before. When John had waltzed, well, not waltzed. It had definitely been more like stumbling, with Sherlock tripping over his own feet, she had been walking out to go visit Mrs. Turner for their weekly scrabble meeting. John was sure, even now roughly two hours since they’d walked through the front door, the contents of her purse were still strewn about the hall where she had dropped it from shock. 

They had sat in her lounge while she fussed about and made them tea and gave Sherlock a gingersnap. He eyed it with the air of a man far too superior for such a trifle sweet, but the moment she had her back turned he had shoved almost the whole biscuit into his mouth in one go and let out a low moan of delight. Both John and Mrs. Hudson pretended not to notice. 

After Sherlock had gathered his strength enough to climb the steps to their flat, John slung one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulder and helped him up the stairs. They now stood just inside the door to the lounge. Sherlock had stopped, once his feet hit the threshold and looked around with tears welling up in his eyes. “Home,” he repeated again, looking from the fireplace all the way across the room to their sofa. He hadn’t thought he’d be fortunate enough to see this place again, yet here it was, unchanged aside from the fact that someone, John probably, had cleaned up the papers that were typically strewn everywhere. 

“Home, Luv.” John agreed, his voice sounded thick and Sherlock knew if he were to look at his friend's face he would find tears threatening to fall down John’s face as well. “Sofa, your chair, or my...well…” John cleared his throat and sounded embarrassed, “your bed. I’d been sleeping in your room… though I didn’t change anything.” 

“It…” Sherlock stammered, feeling equally as embarrassed and looking anywhere in the room except for at John, “could be  _ our _ room.”

It was a statement, and not a question. It made John’s heart beat at double speed. He tried to ignore how dizzy he’d become, tried to find words to tell Sherlock that  _ Yes, yes he would very much like that. _ Instead he ended up clearing his throat, and in a voice he hadn’t heard since puberty blurted out, “Uh, yeah. Sure.” 

They both looked at each other, Sherlock was leaning against the door frame and John was just a step further into their lounge. John’s lips quirked into an embarrassed smile then Sherlock began to giggle. He clutched at his broken rib, which was healing but still offered enough pain to remind him it was still there, and he laughed like he hadn’t laughed in years.

“We’ve been sharing a bed under my brother’s nose for two weeks now, John.” Sherlock wheezed out in laughter, “yet we get home and turn into a pair of idiotic teenagers too infatuated to speak.” Sherlock leaned his head against the doorframe and giggled softly for a few moments until he was able to catch his breath.

John stepped close, placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and grinned when Sherlock bent his head down so their lips were inches apart. 

“A lot has changed in a month,” he leaned up on tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s gorgeous lips. His lips had healed well, under John’s care, as had most of the smaller or more superficial wounds, but John couldn’t bring himself to be anything less than incredibly cautious with Sherlock. 

“Mmm, and in two years, apparently. The flat is clean, and apparently you’re in my room now?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow down at his doctor and snaked his right arm around John’s back. John leaned up for another kiss, but this time Sherlock pressed into it with a deep moan. He swiped his tongue over John’s bottom lip and as John shuddered against him he left out a deep chuckle that reverberated in his chest. John closed his eyes and parted his lips, letting Sherlock’s tongue flick in teasingly before darting back out. Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs, but either John was too engrossed in the kiss, or he didn’t hear them because he lifted one hand off of Sherlock’s shoulder and sunk his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s freshly cut hair. Sherlock moaned as John tugged on his hair and he gripped John’s bottom lip between his teeth in a wordless beg for more. 

The footsteps grew closer, but Sherlock didn’t care. His height made it difficult, but he dropped his hand from John’s back and reached down to get a fistful of John’s arse just as Mrs. Hudson rounded the landing and caught sight of them. John tried to pull away the moment Mrs. Hudson squeaked in either surprise or delight, he’d been far too engrossed in Sherlock’s kiss to even know their landlady had been there, let alone determine the meaning behind her little shriek. 

“John Watson,” She scolded as John tore away from Sherlock and ran a hand sheepishly through his hair, “you take this tray and bring it in. And next time, wait until Sherlock is sitting before getting him all hot and bothered like that. He is still recovering, after all. You’re a doctor, you should know that already!” Though her tone was firm, she winked at the two men before shoving a tray loaded with tea and a few more gingersnaps into the doctor’s hand. 

“Come on dear, to the sofa with you,” She said to Sherlock as she took his hand and walked him over to the sofa. She stayed long enough to make sure Sherlock drank yet another cup of tea, after already having had one downstairs in her flat, then fussed about with the dishes before leaving them alone. The moment they heard her flat door shut below them the two men burst into giggles. 

“That’s going to happen a lot, isn’t it? Her walking in on us.” John asked through his laughter as he clutched his sides and flopped down on the sofa beside Sherlock, in the spot Mrs. Hudson had just vacated.

“Quite so.” Sherlock agreed through controlled giggles, one hand gently over his still healing rib. 

“John?” Sherlock rolled his head on the back of the sofa so he could look at John without moving, he smiled and closed his eyes, freeze framing the way John looked in that exact moment to store away in his mind palace. John’s eyes were crinkled with laughter, the stress lines on his face that had been ever present over the past weeks in Serbia were smoothed out and replaced by smile lines. The sun streaming in from the window was turning John’s hair into a halo of gold. He bottled the image of his guardian angel up and stored it away. It had been similar images he’d stored previously that had kept him sane during his time in captivity.

“Mmh?” John’s voice sounded sleepy, satisfied, content. It sounded like it came from a man who had been missing part of himself and had recently found it again, and was now whole. Sherlock blinked away a tear and rested his right hand on John’s thigh.

“Are we… going out?” He almost didn’t dare ask, for fear the answer would be no, that this whole time it had simply been John’s kindness due to his injuries and not some real show of affection. He had never cared about titles, or boyfriends, or girlfriends for that matter before he’d met John. During the first few months John had been in his life that had begun to change, however. Though having shot John’s offer down that first night, he highly doubted he would ever get the chance to have a relationship with John.

John’s eyes shot open and he looked over at Sherlock as he placed a hand on Sherlock’s and squeezed tightly.

“Of course we are, you’re..” John licked his lips and blinked a few times as he stumbled around for the right words, “my boyfriend, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. Hell, the only person I’ve  _ ever _ wanted to spend my life with.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded his head, feeling the way John’s thumb grazed over the back of his hand, the gentle pressure of their thighs touching on the sofa, he pulled up the image of his John surrounded in a halo of gold and closed his eyes. He fell asleep with a smile on his face and with John beside him, supporting him when his head slumped sideways. For the first time since Sherlock had been captured, he truly felt happy and managed to take a two hour nap without being woken from a single nightmare.

***

Though a great deal of Sherlock’s recovery had been done in Serbia at Mycroft’s instance, Sherlock was still not 100%. Sherlock’s left arm was still in a sling, though he was allowed to remove it twice a day, under strict watch by John, while he did his physio exercise to keep the muscles from weakening. The more severe of Sherlock’s wounds had started to reach the point where the scabs were either forming or healing, and those healing had reached their insufferably itchy stages. Where dark purple bruises had been were now slowly becoming the hideous greens and yellows as the skin and muscles healed from the blunt force trauma Sherlock had withstood. 

Sherlock had, also under John’s careful eye, begun putting on weight again. John made him eat three meals a day, and attempted to get in a high calorie snack each afternoon. Sometimes Sherlock would allow John to be successful, but most of the time he truly didn’t wish to eat. His stomach had unfortunately gotten used to even less food than he’d consumed before leaving London, that even with the small portions John fed him at each meal time, eating more food mid afternoon was something he just couldn’t force himself to do. His ever patient John, however, seemed to understand. He never shamed Sherlock for refusing food, or for accepting it. Just sat beside him and ate with him in silence.   
  
Since returning home, Sherlock’s mental state had begun to rapidly heal. Though a sudden move, or a loud noise on the street below would still make him flinch, it was nothing like the first week at the Villa in Serbia. John had spent many hours each day holding Sherlock while he cried over the simplest things. John had also quickly assumed all medical care over him after one particularly rough nurse mishandled Sherlock while trying to take his blood pressure. Both John and Sherlock knew it would require time, and that Sherlock might not ever fully forget what had been done to him, but each day they were home he grew more relaxed.

About a week after returning to Baker Street Sherlock stopped mid stretch and let out a frustrated howl. John rushed to his side, thinking his friend had moved the wrong way and had hurt himself. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s outstretched left arm and supported it in mid air, in case that was the source of Sherlock’s pain, then looked up at his friend with a worried expression.

“Sherlock, Luv? What’s wrong, where does it hurt?”

“Here, John!” Sherlock all but shouted, jabbing the thumb of his right hand over a spot on his chest, just over his heart.

“Your rib?” John asked as he slowly lowered Sherlock’s left arm so it hung limply at Sherlock’s side.

“No, not my rib, John. Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock spat, and tried to spin away from John, but John caught him with a hand to Sherlock’s good shoulder.

“Call me an idiot all you like, Sherlock, but I’m not a mind reader. You’ve been yelling at me like this every day for three days. Either tell me what is wrong, or so help me I’ll allow Mycroft to hire someone to do these exercises with you.” John kept a firm grip on Sherlock’s right shoulder, preventing him from turning away, but he forced himself to relax his facial expressions. Sherlock had every right to be frustrated, John knew first hand how it felt to be doing these seemingly pointless exercises. They seemed to have no effect at all, while doing them, and this was the first display of frustration Sherlock had exhibited.

“John, it isn’t Physio!” Sherlock growled out, blowing a hard breath through his nose as he rolled his eyes and dragged his right hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s us!” 

“Us?” John blinked and felt like he’d been slapped across the face. Things had been going well between himself and Sherlock. Especially since returning back to London. There wasn’t a moment where Sherlock didn’t want a kiss, or a soft hand stroking his hair or arm. So to hear that Sherlock was unhappy, wounded John deeply. He dropped his hands to his side and took a step back as the rejection set in. 

“John, that's not what I meant!” Sherlock amended quickly, seeing the hurt and rejection in John’s eyes. “I don’t mean that I don’t want there to be an  _ us. _ Just…” Sherlock dropped his eyes down to the ground and stared at the spot between his bare feet. “You… haven’t touched me. I mean you touch me, but you don’t  _ touch me. _ ” he felt his face heat up, and was certain it was bright red, but as long as he didn’t look up into John’s deep blue eyes he felt like he could continue long enough to blurt out what he was trying to say. “I’m… I’m..” he faltered then growled as he tried to get his mouth to form the words echoing in his head.

Understanding slowly sunk in. John mentally kicked himself for not thinking to ask Sherlock what he wanted in their relationship. He’d been taking things slow, giving Sherlock time to heal, both mentally and physically. But now he saw that perhaps Sherlock needed something else to heal other than space and time. Sherlock, his brilliant detective who needed three nicotine patches as a distraction while trying to solve a case, of course would need something more than space to heal from what could only be labeled as weeks of torture. 

“Sexually frustrated?” The doctor asked so gently and quietly that despite himself Sherlock looked up and saw his doctor’s face as red as his own felt. Sherlock nodded once, and saw John’s chest heave as he sucked in a slow breath. Sherlock could  _ actually _ see the wheels in John’s brain as he thought through the way John wrinkled his forehead, and the way he chewed on his bottom lip. He expected John to use his Doctor voice, to tell him that he wasn’t healed enough. Instead, Sherlock was shocked by John’s next words.

“I… Sort of thought you were asexual. Which, I guess makes me a complete arse for assuming. And also thought, that maybe, you needed time.” John stepped close to Sherlock again and took both of Sherlock’s hands in his, taking care not to pull on Sherlock’s left hand, or to raise it too much to ensure he didn’t strain the healing muscles in Sherlock’s left shoulder.

“I believe the term would be, demisexual.” Sherlock replied as he pulled John a fraction closer until their chests were nearly touching. Their height difference made it so he had to bed his neck down in order to press a kiss to John’s temple.

“Googled it?” John asked, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile and flickers of amusement casting beautiful angles on John’s gorgeous face.

“Mmhmm.” 

Crisis averted, thanks to actually talking it through, they both broke into a fit of relieved giggles. When they were finally able to catch their breath John dropped the hand holding Sherlock’s left hand and leading Sherlock with his right hand slowly led him from their lounge, through the kitchen and into what was now their bedroom.

Sherlock’s breath quickened as John wordlessly shut the door behind them and locked it with a solid click. John’s whole demeanor changed the moment the door was shut, he went from semi doting doctor to an animal coiled with energy and ready to strike. He  _ stalked _ his way over the meter between the door and where Sherlock stood next to the bed, his eyes glowing with desire. Without speaking John placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders then let his fingers slowly and teasingly drag down over his arms until they were holding hands again.

“You can tell me to stop at any time.” John’s voice had taken on a husky edge, it seemed thicker, richer, and somehow seemed to sink straight inside of Sherlock making his skin tingle. He just nodded and watched with wide eyes as John let go of his hands and began to slowly unbutton the dress shirt Sherlock was wearing. It was the infuriating purple shirt, that John had secretly dubbed the purple-shirt-of-sex. John found it highly satisfying that this, of all of the shirts in Sherlock’s wardrobe, would be the first shirt he’d take off of Sherlock with the intent of seducing him.

“I won't want you to stop, so don’t you dare stop.” Sherlock tried to sound commanding, to put his usual arrogant flare into his words, but instead they came out breathy and nearly inaudible. John just grinned at him, a beautiful grin that lit up his entire face, then John’s tongue was darting around his lips in a nervous gesture as he reached out and untucked Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers.

Sherlock forced himself to breathe as John undid each button. He wanted to reach up and tear his own shirt off, but the look of intense satisfaction on John’s face made him force himself to be patient. He was thankful for his years of self discipline because John certainly was taking his time. He would undo one button, pull the two sides of his shirt apart, then lean in and press a kiss to each new patch of skin as he revealed it. Every other button, John would add in a swirl of his tongue against Sherlock’s skin. Each brush of John’s lips against Sherlock’s skin made Sherlock roll his head back and groan, while the sensation of John’s tongue would make him howl in frustration and buck his hips forward. 

When the last button was finally undone, John made eye contact with Sherlock and slid his hands inside the shirt and gently ran his hands along Sherlock’s stomach, up over his ribcage and to his shoulders. He took special care not to jostle Sherlock’s left shoulder as he slid the fabric over his shoulder blades then down his arms and over his hands. 

As the shirt fell, John tore his eyes from Sherlock’s and looked down to watch as the purple shirt billowed to the floor with a soft rustle. It pooled around Sherlock's bare feet, then with a last poof of air fell flat against the floor. As he dragged his eyes up over Sherlock. He took in the expensive black trousers, now tented with Sherlock’s arousal. John bit his bottom lip as he cupped Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock wasn’t sure, in that instant if it was luck or smart planning on John’s behalf that they were so close to the bed, but when John’s hand engulfed his groin, Sherlock’s legs gave out. John gently guided him to lay on the bed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder sending a hot shiver coursing down Sherlock’s body from the point of contact directly to his groin.   
  
“If you promise not to move your left arm too much, I won't make you put the sling back on for this.” Sherlock nodded readily which made John chuckle, as he stood up and began taking his clothes off. John’s laugh drifted over Sherlock and settled around him like a soft blanket. He hadn’t realized that he had been slightly nervous, but as John’s chuckle vanished around him he relaxed and let out a deep sigh.

Sherlock propped himself up on his right elbow and shuffled back so he was laying sideways on the middle of the bed and watched in fascination as John slowly revealed his body. He’d only seen John shirtless once before, and that had been in Serbia, and admittedly he had not been paying much attention to the details of John’s body then. John’s torso was lean and he was all muscle and coiled tension under pale golden skin. 

The starburst shaped scar from the bullet wound on John’s left shoulder was much messier than his own wound. John had once mentioned that the initial doctor had failed to remove a piece of shrapnel, and that infection had set in before another doctor was called in for a second opinion, then a second surgery. It had taken John nearly a year to regain 90% mobility in his shoulder, and roughly two more years to defy the doctors proclamations that he wouldn’t ever gain 100% mobility. Now though, Sherlock watched as John’s muscles flexed and shifted beneath the skin as he pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed it to the ground. 

John’s hands were on his buckle now, which made Sherlock tear his eyes from John’s scar. He watched as John slowly pulled the pin out of the hole, slide the leather strap through the buckle, then with one quick movement and a “Swoosh” the belt was off and laying on the floor beside John’s shirt. Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation, expexing John to undo his zip next, then to pull his jeans down over the steadily growing bulge. But instead John stopped, his fingers resting on the button on his jeans, and grinned wickedly at Sherlock. He waited a full thirty seconds, and only until after Sherlock growled in frustration, to finally undo the button and lower the zip.

John had on, underneath his normal “I’m not a serial killer slash bad ass mother fucker who can rescue anyone from any situation” jeans, the most hideous  _ red _ pants Sherlock had ever seen. They were so brilliantly red, and so hideous, that Sherlock had to fight back the urge to clutch his stomach as a full on belly laugh threatened to escape and completely ruin the moment. Instead he merely smirked, which John took as encouragement. As John hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants, Sherlock made a mental note to burn them, along with some of John’s more hideous jumpers the next time John was out of town. That thought was pushed to the side however when John’s pants dropped to the floor. As John kicked his feet out of the pants he drank in the sight in front of him.

John’s penis was already half hard showing an impressive girth and the head was already flushed red with arousal. Sherlock felt himself completely harden beneath his trousers as John took himself in hand and began to slowly stroke himself for Sherlock’s viewing pleasure.

Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes off John, though he couldn’t keep his eyes focused on one single spot. His eyes roved from John’s face, which was awash in pleasure with the slightest hint of pink in his cheeks, to John’s tongue which darted out of John’s mouth to toy with his own lips. He watched as John’s biceps and pectorals flexed with each movement of his arm. But the best view, if Sherlock were forced at gunpoint to pick, was the way John’s thumb slid over and around his head, picking up slick pre-come with each stroke and sliding down his own length to use as lubricant. 

Sherlock found himself dragging his hands over his own body as he watched. He ran his fingers, feather light, over his chest and nipples, then increased the pressure using his fingernails as he reached his stomach. Being careful not to move too quickly, he began to palm himself with his left hand over his trousers while his right hand continued to roam over his chest. Both men’s breathing grew louder, and each breath came in a short huff as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air. Sherlock could feel John’s eyes on him, as he teased himself through his trousers, but instead of feeling self conscious about it, it turned him on even more.

John stroked himself to full hardness before taking pity on Sherlock’s untouched state. He placed one knee on the bed beside Sherlock’s thighs and bent forward. Unlike with his own belt and trousers, he made quick work of the rest of Sherlock’s clothing which he then threw onto the floor before placing his other knee on the bed so he was kneeling over Sherlock’s body.

John was not shy about checking out Sherlock’s naked body. Sherlock, while still displaying signs of his mistreatment, was gorgeous. He was tall, lean, and had legs that would rival any supermodel. John wanted to find out what made Sherlock  _ tick _ what sent him writhing into the bed begging for it to stop and for more at the same time, and he started with those long legs of Sherlock’s. Too often Sherlock had strutted them about the flat, sometimes wearing trousers, or pyjama pants, but more often than not with nothing covering them save a sheet halfway down his thighs. 

John stroked Sherlock’s legs with his fingernails, dragging them softly from the top of his foot to his knee, never taking his eyes off Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed when John’s hands brushed over a sensitive spot he let out a soft moan as his mouth fell open. John focused on that spot for a full minute, watching as Sherlock melted into the blankets before switching to the same spot on his other leg and giving it the same treatment. 

He focused on Sherlock’s legs for five full minutes, and was beginning to wonder if that one spot were the only sensitive spot on Sherlock’s legs until he reached Sherlock’s inner thigh. When his fingers brushed close enough to touch Sherlock’s perineum, though he made sure not to touch it yet, Sherlock let out a yelp and his fists tangled themselves in the bedcover. John chuckled and lightened his touch, watching as gooseflesh coated Sherlock’s legs and his lover wriggled under the touch. The sounds Sherlock made as he used both hands to gently rub at the inside of Sherlock’s thigh sent a shock of desire straight to John’s cock. 

Completely ignoring Sherlock’s cock, on purpose which drew another frustrated growl from Sherlock’s lips, John ran his hands from the insides of Sherlock’s thighs and up over his hips. He dragged his finger along his lover’s sides, lightly stroking Sherlock’s chest, nipples, and belly until he could feel Sherlock’s stomach muscles twitch and concave beneath his touch and his detective panted through the desire.

When Sherlock closed his eyes the next time John’s fingers brushed over his nipples, John parted his lips and sunk his mouth around the head of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock yelped in surprise, but instead of pulling away he tried to thrust his hips up, to get more of himself deeper inside John’s mouth, and John didn’t stop him. He took it all in, letting his tongue press flat along Sherlock’s length and applying a small amount of suction. When Sherlock stopped bucking desperately beneath him, he began to bob his head up and down, dragging his tongue up the length and finishing each motion by swirling his tongue around the head. 

Each motion was slow and deliberately teasing. John knew Sherlock was silently begging for more, for it harder and faster by the way Sherlock’s hand had found its way around the back of his neck and was trying to push him down faster. But John wanted to savor this, he wanted to draw it out as long as he could, give Sherlock the most amount of pleasure. Because he knew that the moment he was inside Sherlock, or the other way around, neither of them would last, and Sherlock deserved more than that. So John poured every ounce of affection and care into his movements. He listened to Sherlock’s body as he began to learn what his lover wanted. 

Every time his tongue swept across Sherlock’s head, the detective would moan and thrash on the bed, the hand around his neck would tighten, then relax as John moved back down the shaft. So he spent extra care, to make sure the tip of his tongue flicked the glands at the base of the head with just enough pressure to draw a curse out of Sherlock. And when Sherlock began thrashing and bucking erratically beneath him, he pulled off entirely with a wet pop. 

“Do… don’t stop.” Sherlock whimpered, trying to pull John’s head back down to his aching erection. He looked up at John, his eyes wide with lust and want, and saw the way John smiled down at him as if he were the most precious present in the world. He blushed, and nearly came right there from John’s gaze.

“I’m not done with you yet,” John said after wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he smiled down at Sherlock from where he hovered, still on his hands and knees, “but I need a favor of you.” 

“Anything,” Sherlock said, and he meant it. If it meant he would feel levels of pleasure again that he hadn't known existed, then he would do anything for John.

John moved, then, sitting up on his knees then shifting one leg off the bed so he could lean over to the side table. He opened the top drawer then pulled out a small bottle of personal lubricant, and handed it over to Sherlock.

“I want you inside me, but I’ll need a little help first.” He said as he moved to lay on his side on Sherlock’s left. “I can do it, if you don’t feel comfortable.” 

Sherlock had to work through the red haze of arousal to understand what John was saying. And when he did understand he looked at the doctor dumbfounded. John wasn’t simply going to use his hand or his mouth, though that had been lovely, to get him off. No, his John was asking for him, for Sherlock, to be inside him. Sherlock had been all but ready to spread his legs shamelessly and ask for it, but here was his John going above and beyond for him, once again.

“Of course I can,” he heard himself saying, then John smiled at him before turning over to get on all fours again, this time with his arse facing Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock had to roll over a little onto his left side, but he was careful not to put too much pressure on his left shoulder. He was a week away from being out of the sling full time, and even for sex he wasn’t willing to extend that. But with a bit of careful maneuvering, and asking John to shuffle a few inches to one side, Sherlock was able to get a decent angle. 

He fumbled open the cap to the bottle, squeezed out what he hoped wasn’t too much lubricate onto his finger, then gently circled it around John’s hole. He’d done this on himself once, simply out of curiosity, so he hoped he knew the basics of what he was supposed to do. Once John’s hole was thoroughly coated, he pushed the pad of his index finger against the tight ring of muscles and began to tease it back and forth. He didn’t push in, at first, just circled the hole and applied just enough pressure that John would think that finally, this time he would push inside. 

John began to rock back and forth, pushing Sherlock’s finger inside himself a little more with each movement. Sherlock watched with heated eyes as John slowly took his finger inside him, first the pad, then up to the first knuckle, then the second, until the back of his bent ring finger was flush with John’s arse. John let out a guttural moan then wiggled his hips around Sherlock’s finger. Sherlock took the hint and began to move his finger in slow circles, focusing on relaxing and loosening the tight ring of muscles. That, if not prepared correctly, would be where most of the pain associated with anal sex came from. So Sherlock made sure to prepare it correctly. 

After a short time, when the muscles were less tight around his index finger, he pulled his finger out and added in his middle finger. They both slipped in effortlessly, and John gave an approving moan. Sherlock repeated the process until he had his index, middle, and ring finger inside John, and was just about to add in his pinky when John looked back over his shoulder and said, “Now, Love. Now.”

With trembling fingers Sherlock opened the bottle once more and squeezed out enough lubricate to coat his cock with. Then he was up on his own knees, stroking the slick liquid over himself with his right hand, while his left hand gripped John’s arse cheek and pulled it slightly apart from the other. Sherlock lined himself up and pressed the head of his cock against John’s hole, then slowly pushed. 

It was  _ tight _ . It was tighter than anything Sherlock had ever felt before. Tight heat wrapped around his cock and squeezed, as if it were trying to squeeze the pleasure out of him directly through his cock and straight into John. He shuddered and his knees wobbled. He placed his slick right hand on John’s other arse cheek and grabbed on for support as he fully sheathed himself inside John.

John didn’t flinch, or make a pained noise, but Sherlock waited for a full count of fifteen before he began to move. His movements were uncoordinated, so John tried to help. He tried to rock back and forth but it all felt  _ too _ good and Sherlock was unable to match his movements. He stilled John by a hard squeeze to his arse, then slowly found his rhythm. It felt best if he slowly sank in until his hips were flush against John’s body, then pulled out quickly until all but the very tip of his cock was exposed, then another slow slide in as he felt John’s muscles contract around him. 

He moved like that maybe a dozen times until he realized that John had a hand around his own erection and was jerking himself off while being fucked by Sherlock. The image made Sherlock close his eyes, picture John’s hand on his own erection, as he slammed into John with all the speed his body would allow. The air in the room grew thick, and someone was moaning loud enough that their landlady would certainly have heard, but all that mattered was the tight heat wrapped around him, and the knowledge that John was still hard and enjoying himself enough to masturbate while being fucked. 

He realized it was him who was moaning when the moans turned into shouts in the form of John’s name. His hands dug in deeper on John’s arse as he thrust in faster and faster until he felt the climax beginning deep inside of himself. It built up like a solid mass of pressure that had nowhere to go, it made his insides go warm and he couldn’t tell if he’d lost the ability to see or if he had squeezed his eyes shut. Then there was release, with one final thrust his cock twitched and he came hard and fast deep inside John. His body shook as the waves of pleasure and release washed over him. His legs went wobbly and his grip on John’s arse went slack as his cock twitched for a final time and he collapsed on top of John’s back with a deep laugh. He felt John's body tense beneath him, felt the muscles contract against his sensitive cock, and the contractions pushed his steadily growing flaccid cock out of John’s entrance. 

He heard John swear, then John too collapsed onto the bed, and rolled over, and shifted so his head was on their pillows, then he was pulling Sherlock close to his chest as he too let out a rich chuckle of pleasure. John stroked his hair as they giggled together on the bed and Sherlock couldn’t help but snuggle closer, he even hooked a leg up over John’s and let out a deep contented sigh.

“That was,” John said, and pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head, “absolutely wonderful.” 

Sherlock hummed out an agreement, the sound rich and deep in his chest. It  _ had _ been wonderful, if a bit short but it left him feeling whole and loved in a way he had never experienced before. He snuggled impossibly closer, their sweaty skin sticking a bit as he wriggled closer, but John didn’t complain. No, John, his perfect John, just placed a warm palm on his back and let his fingers dance in slow circular patterns over his damp skin.

“Can we do that again sometime. It is far more enjoyable than Physio.” Sherlock muttered softly. He was feeling a level of relaxation that he’d never felt before, and his words felt sluggish and his brain sleepy and sated. Sherlock could feel the vibrations of John’s laugh through his cheekbone, which was pressed directly over John’s collarbone. He made a small sound pleasure when John pulled him close and pressed another kiss to his forehead.

“Any time you like, Love. Any time.” John smiled and felt Sherlock’s body relax. 

“You told me, in Serbia, that you would explain where you acquired the skills to rescue me.” Sherlock mumbled sleepily. John remained silent for a moment, hoping Sherlock would be relaxed enough to fall asleep, so he could avoid answering the question. It wasn’t that he  _ didn’t _ want to tell Sherlock. There just wasn’t much he was allowed to tell anyone, and John knew Sherlock, he knew that the clever man beside him would be able to piece together some of the information John would be forced to leave out. He even believed that Mycroft didn’t know the whole of it, and didn’t know Mycroft well enough to know what he had and hadn’t guessed. Judging by how well he’d prepared John for his mission, he figured that Mycroft had guessed enough. But instead of falling asleep, Sherlock shifted so his head was resting on John’s shoulder and he was able to look up and meet John’s gaze.

“Before my tour in Afghanistan,” John began with a sigh, “I was in between gigs, if you would. I’d been to Africa, been sent back home at the end of my tour, but as you can imagine life in the city just wasn’t the same. I was still active duty, lived on base. But once you’re in the heat of the desert, side by side men you can trust to save you from an animal bite or the enemy, or even your own stupidity, there really isn’t a comparison. Some men come back and suffer from PTSD, they just can’t cope with what they saw. I came back and found I couldn’t cope  _ without _ it.” 

John paused in his recollection, trying to remember what he could say. Sherlock didn’t prod him, or ask questions. He simply waited patiently, his eyes now closed, resting comfortably in John’s arms.

“I lasted two weeks, before I found my NCO on base inside his office and asked to be sent on tour again. He gave me one look, told me to sit down and promptly left me alone in his own office. I was alone for nearly an hour before he returned with someone he introduced as Major Sholto. I remember standing to attention, and was about to salute before Sholto waved me off and told me to sit back down. I thought I was done for, I thought they were going to tell me I was too reckless for the army, that I would have been better off keeping my mouth shut and my head down until my next tour.” 

John’s hand found its way into Sherlock’s hair and began gently stroking the sweaty curls off his forehead, “Instead, Sholto explained that he’d just been put in charge of a new operation, that it was top secret and would not be safe. They were looking for volunteers, but each volunteer would have to agree fully to the mission before being told what it was, where it was, or practically any other detail. All he was allowed to tell me was that it was dangerous, we’d be mobile, and it would push our morals.”

“And you agreed?” Sherlock asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I did. Right then and there. Sholto nodded at me, told me to go back to my barracks and pack my belongings. I was the last team member selected, and with me on board they were now ready to be fully operational. I was given a location and a time to meet him later that day. I was also permitted to leave base for two hours to say goodbye to any family members I might have. But, as you know Harry has never exactly been… reliable. I tried calling, got Clara who told me Harry had checked herself into rehab a week earlier. So I spent those two hours tending to my patients and passing their medical care off to another doctor.”

“And then?” Sherlock gently prodded after John had grown silent for a full minute.

“Well, then a lot happened, Love, that I can’t tell you about. What I can tell you is this. I was one of five men who formed a team. There was a man who specialized in long range assassination, close range, extractions, technical wonders that belonged in a film, and Sholto who played a role much like your brother does. His fingers were in all the pots, pulling the strings as we, his marionette puppets, danced.”

“You were close range and extraction, weren’t you?” Sherlock asked, propping himself up on his elbow to stare at the man he’d thought completely ordinary for so long. John just gave him a smile, that wordlessly answered the question without technically breaking orders. Sherlock nodded and rested his head back down on John’s shoulder. 

“We worked closely together for eight months, a lot of it was search and rescue. Mostly our own men who had become POW. But sometimes, there was a threat here in London, or another city, that needed taking care of. We all got hurt at one point or another. One guy ended up blowing off two of his own toes on one mission where none of us had gotten any sleep in over 48 hours. But, honestly, Sherlock. It was the most fun I’ve had until I met you.”

“Sholto…” Sherlock mused, his brain slowly coming back online after having been switched off thanks to John’s ministrations. “You’ve mentioned him before.”

“Mmm, he came with me to Afghanistan. Was my commanding officer there. He’s a good man, who got dealt a bum end. Don’t hear from him much anymore. I believe he’s mainly off grid. I’m afraid there isn’t much else I can tell you, Sherlock. Even Mycroft doesn’t know it all, I assume. Sholto, and the other powers at be will want to keep most of the details under lock and key, even if they did tell him of some of my skills.” John stopped moving his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and moved to sit up a little. He had come and lube leaking out of his rear end, and while cuddling with Sherlock was quite possibly his favorite thing on earth to do, he wanted a shower.

“How many men have you killed?” Sherlock asked with a frown, but the frown was directed at John’s attempt to extricate himself from the bed and Sherlock’s arms, not at the question he’d just asked.

“Counting the cabby, and the men in Serbia…” John’s voice trailed off and he thought as he tried to stand up. “Thirty-seven, outside of a warzone.” Finally free of the blankets, Sherlock’s legs and arms, John stood by the edge of the bed and held out his hands to his lover.

“Come on, let’s have a shower, then I want a snack.”

Sherlock grinned and placed a hand in John’s, allowing himself to be pulled out of the comfort of their bed and into the bathroom. As John shut the door behind him, Sherlock felt his stomach growl and he scowled at John.

“If you think frequent sex will get me to eat more often, John…” he trailed off as John laughed and shook his head. Sherlock joined in the laughter as he stepped into the steaming hot water with John right behind him. 

****

“So, a case then?” John asked, placing his book down on the arm of his chair and watching as Sherlock typed away furiously at his phone. Two minutes earlier Sherlock had come running into the lounge from the kitchen, waiving his mobile around in the air and shouting that he’d heard back from Lestrade about wanting a case. 

“Two dead bodies, a locked door, and a cat!” Sherlock explained, or at least he  _ thought _ he explained, as he finished typing out his reply. “And the police are stumped, as always.” 

Sherlock dashed to the hall and grabbed his coat and scarf, then dashed back into the lounge and stared at John who was still in his chair.

“Well, are you coming or not?” He demanded, thrusting his left arm into the sleeve of his Belstaff. He’d been out of the sling for four days, and had been begging John every day, every hour on the hour, to return to detective work. John had finally agreed that morning, after making Sherlock prove that he had no pain in his shoulder. The method in which he’d made Sherlock prove it had been satisfying for both of them. He still had the image of Sherlock on his hands and knees, naked and begging for more fresh in his mind.

“Right, yes.” John stood and smiled at his favorite human in the whole world “Let me get my coat, you go get a cab. I’ll be right down.” 

Sherlock needed no further encouragement. With the same energy he’d had during their first case, when he declared three serial suicides and a note was equivalent to Christmas, he hurried down the stairs. John watched as Sherlock disappeared around the landing. He’d made so much progress since returning. There were still the occasional nightmares, which they both suffered from, and Sherlock had grown afraid of being alone in a dark enclosed space. But for the most part, he had eased back into normal everyday life. Well, as normal as it could be for the world’s only consulting detective who’d recently discovered his own libedo. 

He made a mental note to invite Mycroft over for dinner, or to send him a pastry basket as thanks. Four months ago, he’d been ready to walk in front of the next bus that came his way. Now, he was hurrying into his coat to catch up to his mad boyfriend before he left in the taxi without him. Life was good again, in 221b, and John was happy. But more importantly, so was Sherlock. Coat on, John hurried down the stairs after his detective and looked forward to whatever their first case as a couple brought their way, and he would be there by Sherlock’s side for whatever source of comfort or support Sherlock needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is bittersweet - posting this. I both want to share it with you, but don't want the journey to end. My amazing beta has agreed, that if I continue on with these two they'll help me with another story!!! So, please hit that subscribe button to this story. When I'm ready I'll post more of these two attached to this one as a series, subscribing to this one will send you an e-mail alert when a series is created and the first chapter of part two is out. I don't know how quickly a second story will happen. My back is improving a little bit each day, and I might be back to work in a week or so (YAY) but that means once I'm back at work my free time will be limited.
> 
> So, that said, I have a few smaller ideas for what could happen in a part two. I want to visit Sherlock as he recovers in London. I want to highlight things like rain on a building reminding him of the water dripping down the prison walls, someone moving too fast in his peripheral vision making him flinch and John having to help him work through a panic attack. But, what do you guys want to see? I thrive off ideas. They give me a goal to work towards so I don't just ramble away. 
> 
> Post in the comments below what you'd like to see, or find me on Tumblr (I have my Tumblr profile link listed in my Ao3 profile.)
> 
> Again, all the love and thanks to BRNZ for making this happen. I'd be lost without my blogger.   
> Er... beta.


End file.
